So Cold
by Kat's in the cradle
Summary: Cal and Gillian take on a high-profile case as Gillian struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan. Cal/Gillian COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Title: So Cold (Chapter 1/?)

Author: Kat

Rating: T (PG-13)

Genre: Angst/Mystery

Spoilers: Up to and including Secret Santa

Summary: Lightman and Foster take on a high-profile case as Foster struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan.

A/N: This is my first Lie to Me story, so please be gentle! And of course it's multi-chapter and attempts at an in-depth plot. I just cannot start small, can I? =]

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Lie to Me. The song _So Cold_ is by Breaking Benjamin, and I own no part of that, either.

**Chapter One**

Cal Lightman shifted from right to left, antsy, tapping a blue file against his leg at a sporadic pace. His eyes scanned the hall as, with growing irritation he pulled his lower lip in his mouth and adjusted his side-to-side shifts into a back and forth sway. He was not at all the patient type, and the new case he had clutched in his hand only exacerbated his anxiousness. With a last, decisive slap of the folder, off he shot from his waiting position.

"Heidi, when Foster gets in, can you send her my way?" he asked over his shoulder as he breezed by the front desk and made his way towards the lab. Restless as he was to begin his newest case, sent from the governor of Maryland, no less, he decided he could bide some time for Gillian's arrival with one of his favorite pastimes: torturing those below him. Since this was his company (he did, after all, have his name on the wall), _'those below him'_ technically meant everyone except Foster. But for the sake of company morale and not being a complete bastard, _'those below him'_ generally meant Loker and Torres.

"Oi! You two!" Cal swung into the lab entrance, leaning heavily on the door frame, pointing with his free hand. "I've got a job for you.'

Ria Torres looked up from the computer monitor where she had been going through old video files, working on refining her raw talent at detecting deception. Eli Loker, however, had his back to the doorway and was sporting a pair of large, noise-reducing headphones. He had two monitors occupied: one with a word processor loaded, and another with a video of a crowd of people rioting in a street. Noticing Loker's preoccupation, Cal dug into his pants pockets urgently, finally producing a small peppermint he didn't even recall stashing there. With eyes narrowed in concentration, he cocked his arm back and chucked the small candy at the back of Loker's head.

"Ow! Hey!" Loker ripped off his headphones and spun around in his office chair, eyes large. "I don't get paid to be your personal punching bag." He rubbed the back of his head, shooting a glare at Torres when he heard what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

"_You_ don't get paid at all," Cal reminded him, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smug smile. It had been a damn good shot.

"Well, then it's not in my job description," Loker amended.

"An internship's not really what I'd call a job.."

Torres, still enjoying the high of her recently-acquired, highly-regarded career, immediately noticed the file in Cal's hand. "Is that a new case?"

"Yes, actually, it is. Lot of rubbish, though, really. Nothing you'd be interested in," he lied, waving his hand as if dismissing the idea. "I've got something much more interesting for you lot." Cal was momentarily distracted by a loud series of crinkling noises. Loker had discovered the peppermint-turned-projectile and decided a mint seemed like a rather tasty idea.

Cal chose to ignore him. "There's a woman who's claiming her husband's cheating on her."

"I thought we weren't going to do cheating spouses cases anymore," Torres pointed out, brows drawn together in confusion.

"This isn't one of those, uh, rich people, gold-digging type situations," Cal explained, but he didn't try to hide the slight upturn of his lips. "This is a kind, seventy year-old gran who's concerned her husband of fifty-some-odd years has been givin' it to their next door neighbor for the past thirty."

Torres shrugged, muttering, "Whatever."

Loker stood and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. Cal heard the distinct, quick click of heels from the hall and popped up from the doorframe. As he dashed from the lab, he called back, "Heidi will give you the details. Just ask for the parrot case."

Loker stopped with one arm in his jacket and, mouth slightly agape, looked over at Torres.

"Did he just say 'parrot case'?"

~*~*~*~*~

Gillian Foster half walked, half jogged along the sidewalk outside on her way to the Lightman Group building. She balanced two paper coffee cups in her hands gingerly, winter coat flapping open behind her, allowing the sharp breeze to chill her to the bone.

She was late. Again.

One great thing about being your own boss was that _you_ had the privilege of dictating when you arrived at the office. This, however, was not the case for Gillian Foster, co-owner of the Lightman Group. When you were Gillian, you had a certain nosy partner sticking his cute British nose where it just did not belong...

If she were completely honest with herself (something she rarely was: psychologist in her, be damned), she would be able to admit that talking to Cal about things would more than likely aid in her healing process. But including him would also put a dangerous strain on the tenuous, platonic situation that was their friendship, and so she did not dare to take that risk.

It had been nearly two weeks since Cal had returned from Afghanistan, nearly two weeks since she had heard the explosions, the gunfire, and had been thousands of miles away, utterly powerless.

She hated to think about it, and usually she was successful at avoiding these worries during the day; cases to study, friendly faces surrounding her. But when she was alone, she was helpless to stop her frantic thoughts. With her anxious mind working at double-time and her chest seized tightly with fear, she could hardly manage to draw deep breaths, and sleep was an impossibility. More often than not, it would be near dawn before she finally fell into a fitful rest, and then she ran the risk of sleeping through her alarm.

Like today.

She used a hip to open the door, the warmth of the building a very welcome relief from the frosty D.C. air. Scooting fully into the building, she made a bee-line for her office, only to be intercepted by the human whirlwind that was Cal Lightman.

"Where have you been, Foster?" he queried, a firm hand around her arm leading her away from her office and towards his. It must have been a rhetorical question, because he did not wait for a response before continuing. "The governor of Maryland wants us to take on a case. Very politically motivated, very high-profile."

"Potentially great for the company image," Gillian supplied, interest piqued, adding, "And good morning to you, too." She struggled to maintain control of the cups she was carrying as Cal led her to a seat across from his desk, even pulling out the chair for her. He stood in front of her, leaning back and resting against his desk.

"You seem to be in a good mood," she noticed. At his small, cheeky smile, she worriedly asked, "Uh oh. What'd you do, Cal?"

"Can't I just be happy to see you?"

"You can be, but you're not." Her eyes sparkled with her wry smile. She leaned forward to place the coffee cups on his desk, brushing against his arm as she did so, trying to tamp down the relief she felt at being in his presence, having tangible proof that he was alive and as ornery and stubborn as ever. Deftly, she removed him of the file, opening it across her lap. He summarized as she skimmed through the papers.

"Last night, a man by the name of Daniel Stewart was shot. He was found in a park; the large amount of blood means the sorry sod was shot there and died there sometime during the night."

Gillian stopped flipping through the file, deciding to focus on Cal's abbreviated version instead. Seeing her look up, he uncrossed his legs and sat a little straighter. He enjoyed having her full attention. She noticed the change in his posture, clinically filing the action away to his growing excitement about the case.

"Now, the governor has shown an interest in this case and his interest, of course, is politically motivated. Elections coming again in the fall and all that."

She didn't try to conceal a flash of disdain. "People are killed everyday, and it takes something like politics to generate interest."

He looked thoughtfully at his partner. "Well either way, a man is dead, love."

Gillian, for her part, did not look at all contrite, but did give him a sad smile. "I know."

The exchange afforded Cal time to study her closely, and his scrutiny had her fighting to keep from squirming in her seat. Cal had a fierce intensity about him, and his severe, undivided attention had a way of getting under the skin of his chosen subject.

She knew what he was observing and mentally cataloguing. Her hair fell in messy curls, framing her tired, pretty face, the late morning leaving no time to straighten it after her hasty shower. Her glances in the mirror had revealed a face drained of its usual color, dark smudges under her eyes. Gillian Foster was never sloppy, and to the untrained eyes, her hair, make-up, and outfit were impeccable.

Cal, however, was most definitely _not_ an untrained eye. She pressed her hands across her dress, self-consciously smoothing away imagined wrinkles.

"How're you doing?" he asked after a torturous silence. "Everything alright?"

"I'm fine."

"Been late twice this week, have you?"

"I know, but I picked up a tea for you on my way here." She reached for the coffee cups, this time taking great pains so as not to brush against him. He took the proffered drink soundlessly, leaving her no clues as to what he was thinking because she could not bring herself to match his eyes.

She knew she was deflecting. Moreover, she knew that _he _knew she was deflecting. But years of partnership, of firmly defined boundaries, of half-truths, pathetic rules and poorly concealed pains were enough to keep Cal from voicing his concerns and prodding too far into her personal life.

He continued to study her as he spoke, pushing up from the desk. "Right, then. Well, we'd better get going, since we've got a bit of a late start. We'll, ah, discuss the case on the way there, yeah?"

"Okay," was what she managed, stifling the sigh of relief she wanted desperately to breathe. She made to follow him when he stopped in the doorway, free hand pressed against the frame, using it as leverage to whip around.

"Okay?" he mimicked, turning to face a surprised, slightly bewildered Gillian. "No...no, I don't think it's 'okay'."

Gillian was nervous, caught a bit off-guard. His stiff posture and searing looks could only mean one thing: he was upset. Whether it was anger or frustration did not make much difference. Of course he took notice of her discomfort and placed a warm hand on her arm as a sort of apology, and even his tone softened.

"I worry about you. I know it's your personal business, and I know you want me to just bugger off. I don't care that you're late, love. You could wait 'til after lunch to come in, if you wanted. But that's not you, not the person you are, is it?"

She saw his eyes drop to her throat as she swallowed, and his hand squeezed her arm, tacitly acknowledging her anxiousness. But he ignored it and continued speaking. "You love your job, I know you do. Sometimes I gotta beat ya out of here with a stick, yeah? So when you're late twice in one week, I start to notice."

Gillian looked down at her shoes, black boots she'd worn to help keep her feet and calves warm. He was prying, and it terrified her to realize how much she wanted him to keep digging. Isolated, she was heart-breakingly desperate to share her pains.

_'I was afraid you'd die,'_ her mind cried.

_'You were so far away.'_

_'There was nothing I could do.'_

But that would violate their fragile partnership. That would let him in so deep, there would be no escaping to their status quo. Not the fact that she'd been worried about him, that was no new revelation; but the ferocity with which she cared, and the raw, unguarded need to be cared for in return. How could she possibly expect him to ignore that, even for her sake? No, let her be the one to force down these feelings. She had a great capacity for ignoring the painfully obvious--Alec was a testament to that. She was pulled from her thoughts when Cal dipped down to capture her gaze.

"Hey," he said as their eyes met. "I worry about you, you know. Worry you won't come to me if you need me."

Seeing her opportunity, she replied, "You just have to trust me." She straightened her slender shoulders and gave him a small smile. The seconds he studied her seemed to drag slowly until his hand slid up her arm. He patted her shoulder a few times and returned her smile before dropping the subject.

"Alright. Well, c'mon then. I drive, you read."

The confrontation over, Gillian was able to fall beside him with their usual friendly closeness as they walked towards the exit of their company.

A/N: I have part of chapter 2 typed. I've been scrawling out my ideas on paper, and then attempted to find time to type them into something a bit more readable. Please let me know what you think. =]


	2. Chapter 2

Title: So Cold (Chapter 2/?)

Author: Kat

Rating: T (PG-13)

Genre: Angst/Mystery

Spoilers: Up to and including Secret Santa

Summary: Lightman and Foster take on a high-profile case as Foster struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan.

A/N: This is my first Lie to Me story, so please be gentle! And of course it's multi-chapter and attempts at an in-depth plot. I just cannot start small, can I? =]

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Lie to Me. The song So Cold is by Breaking Benjamin, and I own no part of that, either.

**Chapter Two**

Ria Torres could not stop herself from raising her perfectly manicured brows in quiet surprise at the comical scene before her. This "case" Lightman had sent them on did not warrant a fleeting glace, let alone the full attention of her and Loker. The "gran" Lightman had described was indeed an endearing figure, a small elderly lady wearing a flower-print dress and a warm smile. Her allegedly unfaithful husband sat beside his wife on their sofa, every bit the cliche with his large glasses, stark-white hair, and bright red suspenders. Like well-trained, dutiful workers, Torres and Loker had taken the claims very seriously.

"Go on, Checkers," the woman prompted. "Tell the nice kids what you told me."

Checkers, a beautiful rainbow Macaw parrot, was sitting on a t-stand beside the couch. He cocked his head at the sound of his name, but stayed silent. Apparently, the parrot had told his doting owner, the elderly woman named Margaret, all about her husband's escapades.

Margaret looked at Torres and said matter-of-factly, "Checkers doesn't like men too much. Your young friend is making him nervous."

Loker was standing in the corner of the quaint living room, arms crossed in front of his chest defensively. "The feeling's mutual," he muttered.

"But I tell ya," Margaret plowed ahead, "Checkers said, clear as the day, 'leave your wife for me'!" She put a hand over her heart. "I never would've believed Harold could do something like this, if it weren't for my sweet Checkers!"

Torres smiled politely, but turned her attention to the husband, Harold. "Mr. Mason, are you having an affair?" That had been Lightman's method: ask the difficult, unaltered question outright. The lack of tact or formality gave the person less time to prepare themselves for a lie.

Harold, who had been reading a newspaper since Torres and Loker had arrived, didn't even look at her to respond. "No, I'm not. Goddamn bird." Most of Harold's face was obscured by the newspaper, but he didn't sound particularly untruthful; then again, voices were Foster's forte.

"Liar!" cried Margaret. "Checkers heard you two talking and he picked up on it, the smart bird."

Torres shot a look towards Loker and saw he was still eyeing the parrot warily. Checkers was leaning forward on his stand, head feathers pinned up aggressively. Torres was having a difficult time keeping her sarcasm in check. She was upset at Lightman for sending them on this joke of an assignment. Actual cases, or even a day or quiet studies of videos would have been preferable to this charade. Sometimes his little tests had a way of really trying her patience. He certainly had a knack for getting under people's skin. Torres was broken from her reverie by a loud noise.

"SQUAWK!" yelped Checkers, flapping his wings while clinging to his stand. "You are the next contestant on 'The Price is Right'!"

"Stupid bird," Harold muttered. Margaret began arguing with him, and as their bickering grew in volume, Checkers grew louder in return.

"SQUAWK! Now back to, 'As the World Turns'!"

Torres stared at the situation in front of her, bewildered. She looked to her companion for some kind of support or direction. She saw his eyes light up and knew he had just discovered something important.

It took a full minute for the two to get the husband, wife, and parrot calmed down long enough for Loker to say, "Your husband isn't cheating on you." He held up a hand to stop the beginnings of another argument. His large blue eyes went a long way towards making a person feel at ease, Torres noted. Too bad his acerbic sense of humor usually helped even the score. He went on to explain, "Do you leave the T.V. on all day for Checkers?"

"Well, yeah," Margaret looked thoughtful, "He likes the voices, music, and pictures."

Loker nodded. "He seems to really like quoting things he hears on the T.V. He was most likely just mimicking a soap opera or movie from T.V."

Slightly impressed with his input, Torres still asked the husband a few more questions just to be sure-- just because it was a joke assignment didn't mean they should slack off. It turned out that Loker's theory was the most likely answer; the husband was not hiding any infidelity. He also didn't seem all that concerned or interested in the allegations; his expression was flat boredom, and he made it obvious he had a very thin tolerance with their presence. Torres suspected he was a man who enjoyed his schedule and did not appreciate their impromptu interruption into his life.

"Well, I'm sorry to have wasted your time," a flustered Margaret said. "Goodness, I am so embarrassed!"

"We were glad to help," Torres responded with as much enthusiasm as she was able to muster.

"At least let me get your payment," Margaret bustled around the kitchen as Loker and Torres donned their coats and headed towards the front door. Margaret returned a moment later with a large tupperware container. The container was as big as a hat box, and the outside was peppered with pansy stickers. She smiled and handed the container to Loker. "Here you are, dear."

Torres raised one eyebrow, and Loker looked quite baffled and asked, "What's this?"

"It's your payment!"

He peered through the clear plastic. "Cookies?"

"Don't worry," Margaret beamed. "When I called I talked to a very kind English man. I told him about our money problems, and he said it wasn't any trouble at all! He said he had two young workers with sweet tooths he would send right over." She sighed happily, looking pensive. "You just don't meet many people like him anymore."

"Oh yeah," Loker knew only Torres could appreciate his sarcasm. "He is one-of-a-kind."

~*~*~*~*~

Gillian was glad to have a case to occupy her thoughts and energy. Her exchange with Cal before departing had been deeply unnerving. Her facade was slipping, and she was quickly losing the fortitude to maneuvre it back into place. Cal usually respected her privacy, and she suspected that was simpler for him when she was married, imagining she had someone else to place her happiness as a foremost necessity.

As it was, her newly-obtained single status had Cal keeping close tabs on her mental health. He was not the only expert in facial expressions and body language; she noticed the lingering gazes, pensive eyes, and covert scrutiny. He invited her over more and more frequently to visit him and Emily, to the point that she had begun to feel like a part of their own unique version of a family. She'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit how his concern touched her, and how she silently longed to explore the peace and comfort she felt when she was with him.

But she refused to allow Cal to know just how much Afghanistan had taken a toll on her, partly because she could hardly explain it herself. With Matheson, the other recent close-call, she took control of the situation. _She _brought him the information, _she_ interrogated the suspects, _she_ duped Zancenelli into leaving his buddies and, when it came down to it, _she _was right there in front of Matheson, begging for Cal's life. The hostage situation was resolved due to efforts on her part (and the other key employees of the Lightman Group.) But with Afghanistan...

Gillian refused to allow her inner struggle to continue. Luckily for her, the new case was a sufficient distraction.

The dead man's name was Dr. Daniel Stewart. He had been found dead that morning in a park by an early-bird runner. An autopsy had yet to be performed, but it was fairly obvious the seven gunshot wounds to the chest were the culprit. The large amount of blood at the scene led authorities to believe he had been shot right there in the park and quickly bled out.

As Cal had said, the governor's interest in this murder was purely political. Dr. Daniel Stewart was a medical doctor who had just recently opened up an anonymous abortion clinic, despite loud objections from many public groups, the most notable of which was the anti-abortion group called Beating Hearts: a Maryland-based organization, and clearly the most out-spoken against Stewart and his new clinic. Beating Hearts had never been outwardly violent, but members of the group had been arrested for vandalism and destruction of public property, all of which had been organized and facilitated by their leader, Kevin Perkins.

Standing in front of a seated Kevin Perkins, Gillian had to admit, he did not look the least bit threatening: a small, balding man with a beak-like nose and wire-rimmed glasses. The police had picked up Perkins for questioning, but had not been successful at extracting any useful information. Cal was sitting across from the suspect, preferring to be at eye level.

"A little nervous, are you, Mr. Perkins?" Cal asked, leaning back in his seat and studying the man's face. "You've got perspiration on your forehead, and you've been bouncing your leg nonstop since Dr. Foster and I walked in."

"I've got nothing to be nervous about," Perkins was clearly lying, but they didn't want to address the issue yet.

"Then you won't have a problem answering a few questions," Gillian jumped in.

"The important one, I guess," Cal seamlessly took over, "would be: did you shoot Daniel Stewart?"

"No," Perkins firmly denied. Cal was uncharacteristically silent, but Gillian did not observe a hint of deception leakage on his face or in his voice. Yet, the man still seemed nervous, and so she took over questioning.

"Did you order a member of Beating Hearts to shoot him?" Gillian and Cal's back-and-forth method of interrogation was clearly unsettling to Perkins. His eyes darted between them.

"No," he insisted. Again, not lying, but still clearly upset. She was beginning to wonder if his agitation was simply from being brought to the police station to be questioned. She allowed Cal to jump in.

"Did one of your members shoot Dr. Stewart, without your specific order?" his tone was firm and unyielding, and Perkins had a split-second of silence before responding.

"No."

Gillian sensed they had come to the heart of the matter, and studied Perkins with clinical detachment, noting, "Your pitch rose at the end of the word 'no'."

"So?" he licked his lips anxiously.

"So?" Cal mimicked. "It means you've got no confidence in what you're saying." She sensed his fake anger approaching. Cal slammed his hands on the table for emphasis, and his voice filled with what sounded like thinly-veiled rage. "Do you know who shot Dr. Stewart?"

"No!"

"But you wanted him dead, didn't you?" Cal could be quite frightening when he was mad, even if he was only faking it.

"Of course not!" Perkins sputtered.

"But he deserved to die, yeah? For killing those innocent babies?" Cal asked venomously.

"N-no." Clear sadness. Perkins' lips turned down and his eyebrows rose.

Gillian interjected soothingly, "You're not a violent man, are you, Mr. Perkins? You didn't want that clinic to be open, but you certainly didn't want Dr. Stewart dead." Perkins looked down and away. Shame. She continued, "If the person who killed Dr. Stewart is a member of Beating Hearts, keeping them hidden would only damage your cause."

Gillian's calming voice had eased away some of Perkins' nervousness, and his hand that was placed on the table turned up in a gesture that almost screamed openness. She noticed Cal took a moment from studying the suspect to glance her way, and when she caught his eye he gave her a small smile to display his admiration. She usually appreciated his occasional "atta girl" praises, but a nagging part of her wondered if he was taking pity on her, and she found she couldn't enjoy the moment.

She continued her questioning while she had Perkins' cooperation. "If you think the murderer could be a member of Beating Hearts, then giving us a member list would be very helpful in finding Dr. Stewart's killer."

Perkins' jaw tensed, and she knew they'd lost him. He folded his arms across his chest, leaned back in his chair, and declared, "I believe you need a court order for such information. I will not have you harassing my members for your witch-hunt."

Cal spoke up, scooting his chair back. "Alright, I think we're done here." Gillian followed him out of the interrogation room.

"Okay, well, _he_ certainly thinks it's possible someone from his organization murdered Dr. Stewart," she said in a hushed tone once the door was shut safely behind them.

Cal had his hands on his hips, and leaning towards her to keep their conversation personal, replied in a low voice, "Oh yeah. He's definitely worried someone's gone rogue."

"I think the evidence is too circumstantial for a court order."

"Don't need one. No, what we need are some videos of their protests."

As he moved closer to her, she caught the scent of his aftershave, and a surge of emotion made her chest tighten painfully. She swallowed down a rising lump in her throat, unable to resist taking a step backwards. To cover for her sudden uneasiness, she continued walking away.

"I bet the police have some videos of Beating Hearts," she suggested. "The authorities usually like to keep tabs on potential domestic terror groups."

"Big Brother and all that," he agreed, falling in step beside her. "Where are you going?"

"I was going to head over to the clinic and sift through some of their hate mail, see if any mention threats towards Dr. Stewart directly."

"Sounds good. I'll have the police send the videos over to Loker and Torres, then we'll go."

Gillian stopped walking and placed a light hand on his chest. Whether he acknowledged it or not, he recognized something was amiss with her, and that's why he was trying to go to the clinic with her. She hoped her unsolicited touch would make up for her hasty retreat. A deep breath helped her steady her racing heart.

"You sent them away, remember?" she pointed out. She had gently admonished him for his little trick on the ride to the police station, but the stunt had made her smile, and it had felt good to share in a little of his fun. "I'll pick up the letters and bring them back here. You can start going over the video tapes."

"You sure there's nothing you wanna talk about?" he queried, leaning towards her so she had to look him in the eye to respond.

"Like you said, a man is dead." She felt her years of studying psychology kick in, and she welcomed the reprieve into observational detachment. "The best thing to do is look through the letters and the videos, like you said. This type of violence would have been escalating, and that would show."

Although Cal's lips were pressed into a thin line and his eyebrows were pulled together, he allowed her to walk away from him, but couldn't resist calling to her back, "You'll have your cell phone?"

Happy for a safe, familiar exchange, Gillian turned to give him a bright smile. "If you need me."

A/N: Well, what do you think? These first two chapters came so easily for me. I'm a little nervous about subsequent ones. I hope I can live up to your expectations! =]


	3. Chapter 3

Title: So Cold (Chapter 3/?)  
Author: Kat  
Rating: T (PG-13)  
Genre: Angst/Mystery  
Spoilers: Up to and including Secret Santa  
Summary: Lightman and Foster take on a high-profile case as Foster struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan.  
A/N: This is my first Lie to Me story, so please be gentle! And of course it's multi-chapter and attempts at an in-depth plot. I just cannot start small, can I? =]  
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Lie to Me. The song So Cold is by Breaking Benjamin, and I own no part of that, either.

Chapter Three

_Crowded streets are cleared away one by one  
Hollow heroes separate as they run  
You're so cold keep your hand in mine  
Wise men wonder while strong men die_

The police had been extremely helpful in procuring video tapes of the various functions either hosted or attended by Beating Hearts. The twenty-inch T.V. at the station was hardly ideal for studying the videos, but the nature of the group and its functions: an angry, self-righteous anti-abortion organization picketing and holding rallies, led to over-the-top displays of emotion. If the shooter attended these events, his frustration and violence would differ from the crowd's.

Police officers would check in on Cal every now and then, sometimes out of politeness, other times offering their own advice, but always with a touch of apprehension. He was accustomed to making people uncomfortable; such was the nature of his life's work. It was why he preferred being at the office, surrounded by people studying the same science he was. The days he had his daughter were also welcome reprieves. Emily was someone who was well-aware of what he did, but trusted him to keep it out of their personal relationship.

That used to be the very definition of his friendship with Gillian. She was, however, becoming a much more integrated part of his life outside of their company. He thought nothing of dropping by unannounced, like he did after he was taken hostage. He never considered she might be too busy, or that his intrusion would be unwelcome. They enjoyed being around one another, understood each other, and knew when to push or when to back off. It was easy to be around Gillian.

The only problem was, Cal was having problems with the "backing off" aspect. It was difficult to see her in obvious turmoil, but it was even harder to know that she was taking her unhappiness home with her, alone. He knew she believed separating their personal lives made the company run smoother, and maybe she was right.

But Cal had doubts.

And when he had to come to work to the exhausted, fearful eyes of his partner, those doubts seemed to grow exponentially. He was struggling with himself about whether or not to allow her to continue controlling the dynamics of their relationship. He wanted to probe her about her distress. He cared too much not to.

Cal popped the third video from the VCR and picked up the fourth. He almost regretted sending out Loker and Torres. Having more eyes on the videos would've been helpful, but mostly he was just growing bored with his tedious perusal. Beating Hearts was tame, as far as he could tell, and for all their hatred of Dr. Stewart, Cal was still beginning to doubt their involvement.

He drummed his fingers on the table, glanced at the clock on the wall, and considered calling Foster.

Cal felt a change in the atmosphere of the police station before he actually heard it. Anxious voices called out to one another. Footsteps were hurried and more sporadic than usual. He poked his head into the hall, but no one noticed him.

"Oi! What's going on?" he called loudly.

A young officer stopped, cheeks flushed and eyes wild. He was agitated and afraid. "There's been another attack."

~*~*~*~

The media presence outside of Dr. Stewart's clinic could only be described as "a circus." Gillian had to park three blocks away, ducking through the crowds of people. Reporters shouted into microphones to be heard over the raucous cries of various protest groups that had taken the opportunity to emerge. More radical anti-abortion groups like Beating Hearts, but also some pro-choicers were represented, many holding large signs calling for the arrest of Kevin Perkins.

Two particularly rowdy groups were caught in a heated argument, and Gillian spared them a sidelong glance as she passed. The rage simmered, and protesters began stepping closer to rivals, shouting face-to-face.

_'This is going to turn violent soon,' _she silently realized, feeling both sad and ashamed that something as tragic as a murder could bring out such behavior in people.

The clinic was surrounded by police tape, and a group of officers guarded the perimeter, eyeballing the commotion warily. One policeman acknowledged her approach, and she gave him a tight smile, offering her identification.

"Hello, Dr. Foster," he greeted with a nod. "Quite a scene, isn't it?"

"Yes it is," she agreed, and turned to study the mess of people. "Tell the other police officers to be on guard. These protests are about to become violent."

"Ah, hell," he breathed, and as he reached for his police radio, as if to prove her point, the crowd ignited with loud screams. By the looks of things, it was just a small group of men shoving and throwing punches while the rest of the protesters cheered them on.

The man spared her one last look. "You can go on in, Dr. Foster. We'll get this under control."

Other officers were alread rushing in, and Gillian struggled to remain on her feet as people pushed by her. To escape the madness, she made her way to the police tape and bent underneath it, brushing a hand across her forehead when she was finally safe behind her small taped barrier. Deciding the best decision would be to get out of everyone's way, she turned towards the clinic. Fleetingly, she wished Cal had come with her. He had a rather sharp, commanding presence, and he certainly would have been a great help in maneuvering through the chaos.

Gillian had every intention of grabbing the mail and taking it back to the police station. But when she walked towards the door, an earth-shattering boom propelled her body backwards as the clinic erupted into an explosion. Heat enveloped her, shrapnel pierced her, and she barely choked out a startled scream before her head cracked against the concrete and everything went black.

~*~*~*~

Cal dragged a hand across his face roughly, slouching in the passenger seat of a patrol car. He had no outlet for his anxiety: the officer who volunteered to drive to the hospital had the sirens blaring and expertly darted through traffic. He resisted the urge to chew on his thumbnail, and instead rested his elbow against the door, shoving his hand into his hair.

When he had first heard there was an explosion at the abortion clinic, his chest had been seized so tightly by fear that he could not draw a breath. Rugged determination got him moving. He accosted the nearest police officer and demanded to speak to one of the agents at the scene.

The police tape which cordoned off the clinic spared the majority of the protesters, police, and reporters, and only a few suffered minor abrasions. Gillian, however, had been far closer than anyone else, and all Cal had been able discern was that she was taken by an ambulance, unconscious.

Cal felt short of breath, lightheaded. He'd known she was going to the clinic alone to have some time away from him, but he let her leave anyway. He'd been so damned concerned with keeping her comfortable, allowing her the distance she had staunchly placed between them.

Why did he permit her to dictate the terms of their relationship? Seeing her in pain day after day, with her exhausted blue eyes, watching a husband step out on her, witnessing her broken smile anytime a case dealt with children, and all Cal ever did was keep a cursory watch on her emotions. He wished he could corner her with his observations. He knew part of her wanted his help. He saw her look at him in longing, and he noticed the sadness around her mouth every time they said goodbye.

But she wanted a boundary between them, and it was his job to ignore her distress. So why did he permit her to dictate the terms of their relationship?

Because he was a better liar.

Because she was far too good for him.

The tires squealed as the patrol car careened to a stop in front of the hospital. Cal jumped from the car, powered by adrenaline and nervous energy.

"Thanks, mate," he acknowledged with a half-hearted mumble as he rushed to the door of the hospital.

He needed to know she was alright. His heart felt like an aching, hollow wound in his chest as he considered the possibility that she wouldn't be okay. He swallowed hard against a wave of nausea that rolled from the pit of his stomach up to his throat.

But his fear was not readily observable to the hospital staff. They were faced with something just as difficult, though not near as raw: Cal's anger.

"Gillian Foster," he shouted across the waiting room to the orderly sitting at the desk. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he stormed through the room. "Explosion victim brought in by an ambulance."

To avoid anymore of an outburst, he paced, hands on hips, as the nurse looked up the necessary information. The second the room number was out of her mouth, Cal was gone.

~*~*~*~

Gillian sat on her hospital bed, propped up by several pillows. Her whole body ached, certain parts with much more ferocity. The bright hospital lights pierced her eyes, shooting sharp pain into her throbbing head. She'd bolted out of unconsciousness in the ambulance with a frightened scream, startling the EMTs tending to her. A doctor had seen to her injuries immediately upon her arrival, and now she sat lone in the small room.

She looked up when she heard quick footsteps walk by. She smiled.

"Cal," she greeted warmly, glad to see his familiar face. The suddenness of the explosion had left her feeling shaken, jumpy.

"Hello, darling," he said, returning her smile. His eyes scanned over her injuries, lips pulled tighter than usual. He was worried. She imagined she must look like hell. Her right cheek was swollen and extremely tender from where she slammed into the pavement. She had landed hard on a shoulder and, while not dislocated, she had difficulty rotating it and definitely could not put much weight on it. Her propulsion had also caused her to bang a knee against the unyielding ground. She winced whenever she had to bend it, and knew soon it would turn into an ugly purple color.

Finished with his study of her, Cal walked next to her bed and took hold of her hand. He leaned in to kiss her cheek, hesitating awkwardly over her as he caught sight of the injury there. Feeling safer and emboldened by his presence, Gillian slid her hand along the back of his neck, turning her head to present the unharmed side of her face. She pulled him down and he took the hint, roughly pressing his lips against her cheek and holding them there. He felt raw, unguarded, and she silently willed him to hold it together. His stubble prickled her face, and the familiar sensation made stinging tears rise to her eyes. Cal kissed her a second time, this one at the corner of her lips. She swallowed the urge to cry.

Cal sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her face closely.

"How're you doing?" his voice was soft and low, a tone he saved for her during times of crisis. His quiet sincerity was a welcome relief from the fear and chaos she had been experiencing.

"I'm okay." Gillian felt disconnected and, dissatisfied with her answer, she shook her head, wincing at the searing pain the motion caused her. "No, no. I'm not okay. I mean, I guess...I just," she fumbled for words before settling on, "How're you?"

She felt it was a rather pathetic answer, and to her surprise, he laughed out loud and said, "I dunno what's funnier 'bout that: you sitting her all busted up, concerned about _my_ well-being." He studied her, giving a small, whole-hearted smile that she swore was one of the most beautiful sights. "Or that I'm here, having this conversation with you. You're beat to hell, you smell like smoke, but I'm here, and you're here..."

Cal laughed again. "God, love, I'm bloody fantastic."

She knew she should run from his open honesty, but battered and exhausted, it was all too easy to crumble against him. She gave into her desire for comfort.

"Will you sit with me for awhile?" she asked, needing his presence, his overwhelming happiness that she was alive.

"Of course."

Gillian felt weak, but did not have the will to resist indulging in her longing to be close to him. She scooted her pillows over so he could shift beside her. The small bed meant they were sitting with legs and arms pressed close. Gillian took a deep, shaky breath, feeling her achy muscles relax at feeling Cal's warm body and steady breathing.

"I was so scared," she confessed quietly. "In the split-second before I blacked out, I thought I was going to die." She paused. "Was anyone else hurt?"

"No, you caught the worst of it. Clinic was closed."

_'The case,'_ she thought. In the commotion she had forgotten why they were even here, why she'd been injured at all. She felt guilty and needy and hated herself for it.

"What's this?" Cal asked, gesturing towards her face. "What's going on in there, huh?"

She didn't bother to lie to him. "You shouldn't be babysitting me."

Cal's voice was quiet and so dangerous. "Do you really believe I'm just here for you?" His eyes were bright. "I'm a selfish bastard, a complete and utter prick. That twenty minute ride to the hospital? Longest, most God-forsaken ride of my life. I didn't even know if you were alive."

Gillian looked at him in quiet wonder. "You were afraid you'd lost me."

He placed his hand on her thigh and studied the connection intently. "Yeah, love. I thought I'd lost you."

A/N: Sorry for the brief hiatus. I was having major computer malfunctions. It's all better now. =] Please let me know how you like my story! It is my first, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: So Cold (Chapter 4/?)  
Author: Kat  
Rating: T (PG-13)  
Genre: Angst/Mystery  
Spoilers: Up to and including Secret Santa  
Summary: Lightman and Foster take on a high-profile case as Foster struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan.  
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Lie to Me. The song _So Cold _is by Breaking Benjamin, and I own no part of that, either.

A/N: I apologize for the delay in updating! I beg forgiveness, but must point out that I have a good excuse: I have a thesis due in a few weeks! It has been quite an endeavor--I've been working on it for almost a year now! Once my thesis is behind me, updates should come much more frequently. =] Please read and review!

**Note:** Document Manager is being weird and won't let me put symbols to denote breaks in sequence. So, instead, I've put the title (So Cold) in italics to show where a break is. Sorry if this is confusing!

Chapter 4

_Show me how it ends, it's alright  
Show me how defenseless you really are  
Satisfied and empty inside  
Well that's alright  
Let's give this another try_

The hospital lights were bright, unrelenting beams that traveled swift and unyielding, piercing into her eyes, her head. The pounding was steady, an interminable _thump thump thump_ so painful that occasional rolling waves of nausea would bubble in her stomach. Even the simple noises seemed invasive; quiet conversing turned to shouts, the ring of a telephone turned to a shriek.

Cal had left about an hour ago with a gentle squeeze of her arm, saying he was headed off to talk to the officers on the scene during the explosion. He said he would take their statements and head back to their company building to scan the remainder of the police video tapes of the anti-abortion group. After his departure she felt strangely bereft, alone and in pain.

Gillian sat in the hospital waiting room, perched obediently on the edge of the chair while a nurse wrote up her release forms, trying desperately to ease the pain in her head. Her impeccable posture caused her more harm than good--her legs were bent at a ninety degree angle and her injured knee throbbed angrily in protest. There were few other patrons in the room, for which she was grateful; however, her persistent aches made her restless, and she scanned the room for a distraction.

A television in the corner of the room was turned to a news channel, and Gillian realized with a wince that they were discussing the explosion. Two news anchors introduced the story before the screen flashed to an interview.

Gillian did not recognize the woman being interviewed. Her eyes narrowed to read the small print on the screen, labeling the sharply-dressed, brunette interviewee as Lacy Stewart. Gillian chewed lightly on her lower lip, pondering the nature of Lacy Stewart's relationship with their murder victim, ultimately deciding she was mostly likely Dr. Daniel Stewart's wife.

Lacy confirmed Gillian's conclusion when she began her speech.

"This crime has come as a huge shock to our family," the woman stated, arms at her sides as she stared directly into the camera. Her words were rich and meaningful but her expression placid and voice dull as she continued, "Daniel was more than a doctor. He was a loving, devoted husband."

"Dr. Foster?" the nurse sitting at the large desk in the corner of the room called.

Gillian gingerly stood, walking to the nurse who addressed her.

The young nurse smiled and said, "You're fit to leave. Just need you to sign these forms."

"Of course," Gillian agreed, taking a proffered pen and mechanically scribbling her signature, surprised with herself at how hollow her voice sounded. She gave the nurse a parting smile and small wave as she turned and walked out of the hospital.

The winter air was crisp, and the early onset of evening gave birth to dry, chill winds that were assiduously harsh in their barrage and caused stinging tears to well up in her eyes. Gillian tugged her coat more firmly around her body, a puff of condensation floating in the air as she let loose a brief sigh.

She knew the logical thing to do would be to head home, get an early rest and return in the morning. But the thought of being alone made her feel uneasy. Cal would be back at the office, no doubt. She felt torn, her heart aching and chest tight with the pain of her indecision. On the one hand, she was a strong, independent woman who desperately needed some rest after a physically trying ordeal. But on the other hand...

On the other hand, her brush with death had pushed her dangerously close to a precipice she had been coquetting with ever since she had seen Cal, grainy and vulnerable, on that satellite image from Afghanistan. When had they lost control over their very lives? Gillian, a fiercely self-sufficient woman, was struggling vainly with the knowledge that she could have been lost--he could have been lost. And what was her reply to his crisis? As he was thousands of miles away facing explosions, bullets, she did nothing.

Gillian Foster hated doing nothing.

_So Cold_

While the severe lights of the hospital had been unwelcome, Gillian felt only relief when bathed in the fluorescent hue of the hallway lights in their company building. The heat warmed her limbs and brought a flush to her face, and she had hardly taken five steps before Cal poked his head out of his office door to greet her.

"Thought you were going home for the day," he stated, leaning against the door jamb.

Gillian was ashamed at the relief she felt at being in his presence. Some of the weight was lifted from her slender shoulders, the tight constriction easing around her heart. His posture and attitude was so cocky, so utterly _Cal _that she found herself falling into an easy banter.

Smirking, she placed a hand on her hip and replied, "No you didn't."

He offered a brilliant smile in reply. He enjoyed it when she called him out on his little fibs.

Pleased with his response, Gillian brushed by him and walked into his office. She felt him following close behind her and turned her head, catching his eyes over her shoulder. She asked, "So, did the officers that were guarding the clinic give you anything useful?"

Cal plopped into the chair behind his desk, leaning back and sliding down, slouching comfortably. "They're saying no one went in or out." He grabbed a pen from his desk and tapped it against a stack of folders, continuing, "But they're terrible liars."

Gillian watched him drum a staccato rhythm with the pen, wondering what had him so antsy. She imagined it must be their current case and the lack of solid leads to follow. Her stomach clenched with a small feeling of terrible, irrational guilt before she tamped down the emotion. She closed her eyes and pictured the turbulent scene outside of the clinic: the pressing crowds, the deafening shouts.

The tap of the pen stopped, and when Gillian opened her eyes again, she found Cal staring at her. His eyes were slightly narrowed; he seemed curious. Not wanting to explain, Gillian instead commented, "Police officers are well-known for their solidarity, even in times of crisis. It's likely they don't want to admit the possibility that this explosion could have been prevented."

"Right," he agreed absently, but his eyes never left her face.

Unnerved by his attention and unable to read the tumult behind his eyes, Gillian walked over to the chair across from his desk and carefully tried to lower her body to it. The action caused flares of pain to shoot through her aching limbs, her lips pulling tight in a wince.

"Still hurting, are you, love?," Cal rhetorically asked. She could see concern radiating in his eyes. His voice was quiet, personal. She now recognized the intensity in his gaze. There was worry and care and that extra, tacitly acknowledged affection that ran too deep and too intimate.

"Cal," she warned.

He raised his hands in defense. "Couldn't help it. You were practically shouting it." He gestured to her face. Gillian sighed.

"Can we just talk about the case?" she inquired wearily. Cal was open and raw, and it was too much for her exhausted body and even more depleted mind. When he didn't respond immediately, she continued, "I need you to be detached for me."

Gillian regretted the words as soon as they left her lips, and Cal indubitably noticed her surprise. He pushed out of his chair so quickly that she started. He placed his hands on his hips and furrowed his eyebrows. A muscle jumped in his jaw from the stern clench of his teeth. An insurmountable span of time passed as he simply stood, angry, and she began to waver in her position.

"Detached?" he mimicked, breaking the silence. "You want me to be detached?"

She tried to interrupt him. "Cal--"

Cal simply talked over her, voice rising in decibel as his irritation grew. "You were caught in an explosion, Foster." He was practically shouting now. "You could've been killed!"

She stood so she was eye-level, and while she didn't shout, her voice had a hard edge to it as she spoke, "And how many times have our situations been reversed? You are constantly throwing yourself in front of danger, and for what?"

"This isn't about me!" In a few short steps he was on the other side of his desk, in front of her, less than a foot away. He tilted his head forward, but didn't lower his voice; if anything, he got louder. "This isn't about risks or gambles! This is about _you_, Foster. This is about an accident--a stupid, _bloody _accident that almost got you killed!"

Face-to-face with Cal, Gillian was close enough that she could almost feel his ire rushing over her in one giant wave, consuming her, suffocating her. His breath was on her face, and his eyes were boring into her own, unwavering. Her mind struggled to say something, _anything, _before he started shouting again, and to bide time, she stepped back, turning her head and losing his gaze.

But he didn't shout, and the silence allowed her to focus on her physical pain, the hammering in her head, the stinging cuts, aching bruises. When he finally spoke his voice was softer, but no less angry.

"And you want me to be detached," Cal said venomously, a dangerous edge to his tone.

Tears began to sting Gillian's eyes, and she swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to stave off a rising sob. She didn't want to fight with Cal, but it was becoming so hard, so _damn _hard to toe the line between partnership, friendship, and that unspoken something more.

Cal had always let her control their tenuous connection, and though she fiercely wished tonight would be different, he caved to her.

"Alright, then," he conceded, bitter. "Good night, Foster."

She followed the sound of his swift, angry steps until he walked out of the building.

Gillian longed to sprint to her office, stretch her aching body across the couch, and sob unabashedly into the pillow. But she set her jaw and held her chin high, and only a few tears slipped down her face as she calmly walked to her office. She quickly swiped away the moisture clinging to her cheeks and took a deep, shuddering breath.

She was angry at herself and at Cal. She was peeved with herself for becoming increasingly powerless to separate her feelings from her work, for being incapable of handling Cal's recklessness, for being unable to relinquish control. And Cal--she was angry with Cal for giving her that control. He let her dictate their relationship, he always had, and she was slowly bending under the weight of that responsibility.

Gillian didn't think she could handle the pressure. She cared so much for him that it sometimes felt as though her heart would burst: his wit, his temper, his tenacity. But there was their connection, their repartee. They were friends, and they were partners. They were as close as two people so completely isolated could be. They were at once separate entities and so hopelessly entangled.

And when she imagined him thousands of miles away facing a barrage gunfire, she worried because she cared. But she also worried because somehow along the way she had become dependent on Cal, and to ferociously independent Gillian Foster, this outcome was unacceptable.

Gillian sniffed to repress more tears. She hated herself for wanting him to come back to her, hated the way she listened intently for the sound of his footfalls. Her eyes darted to the clock. She sighed, feeling as though the world were resting on her shoulders as she turned off the office lights and left to brave the frigid winter night.

A/N: I'm sorry this is kind of a short chapter. I wanted it to be longer, but this seemed like a good place to stop. Reviews are ever so lovely. I have treasured every review I've been given so far, and thank you SO much for taking the time to read. Please let me know what you think. =] Oh, and the next installment will come much quicker than this one, so be on the look-out!


	5. Chapter 5

Title: So Cold (Chapter 5/?)  
Author: Kat  
Rating: T (PG-13)  
Genre: Angst/Mystery  
Spoilers: Up to and including Secret Santa  
Summary: Lightman and Foster take on a high-profile case as Foster struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan.  
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Lie to Me. The song So Cold is by Breaking Benjamin, and I own no part of that, either.

A/N: Here is Chapter 5! I hope the wait wasn't too long. =] Thesis is due next week, eeek. .

Chapter 5

_ Tap tap tap_

Gillian lay supine atop her too-soft mattress. Outside, the winter wind was howling, and a tree's creaky branches incessantly knocked against her bedroom window. The rhythm was broken, irritating.

_Tap taptaptap tap_

Her blue eyes squeezed shut tightly in frustration. She rolled onto her stomach and burrowed her head beneath a pillow, groaning into the fabric when her sudden movements caused sharp pangs to travel throughout her body. Face flushed and breath hot, the temperature under the pillow soon rose to an unbearable level. Wearily, Gillian shifted to her back once more.

_Taptap tap_

The fresh air offered a brief reprieve, and she ran a hand across her face, pushing aside hair that had become damp with perspiration. A quick glance at the clock caused her to sigh wearily.

5 AM.

Following her argument with Cal, Gillian had resignedly gone home, hoping the toils of the day would allow her a deep, vital rest. Instead, she had paced anxiously throughout her home, busying herself with simple, mindless chores. She had tried desperately not to ruminate on the evening's events, hating to be at odds with Cal. She had finally dozed off sometime after 1 AM, but had fidgeted even in sleep, awakened by those wooden fingers drumming against her window.

_Tap tap_

The glow of her alarm clock's LED lights accentuated the watery sheen in her eyes, and she tangled her hands in her cotton sheets, curling them into fists. She had been mad at Cal, but her frustration with him had ebbed and faded away, leaving her with no one to blame but herself.

Gillian was exceedingly annoyed with herself.

Cal had not shown an unexpected amount of concern. She had seen the same dread and anguish in his eyes after she had been attacked by Jenkins. She had been touched, and his concern and fond presence had made her feel safe, content. They were friends, she had been in danger.

But Gillian was not as strong as she was back then, and hate burned in her chest at having to admit that to herself. Something visceral had shifted within her, and she felt poised at the edge of a precipice, scrambling for footing while aware that any effort to survive would be in vain. She could no longer take Cal's kindness, his friendship, without imagining her life without him, and something in her broke anew whenever these thoughts plagued her.

_Taptaptaptap_

Sighing, she spared one last, longing look at her alarm clock before extricating her limbs from the twists of her sheets and sliding out of bed. If she couldn't get the sleep she needed, she might as well do something more productive than lie empty and useless on her bed.

The hot spray of the shower revitalized her skin and made her feel more human. The sharp citrus scent of her soaps chased away the groggy vestiges of her exhaustion, and it was with a small sigh of regret that she twisted the shower knobs to turn off the water. Dripping and wrapped in a towel, Gillian ran a hand over the dense condensation shrouding the bathroom mirror. The glass squeaked as she chased away the remaining fog and leaned forward to study her injuries.

Where her face had cracked against the pavement, a splotchy purple bruise had appeared. She touched the injured cheek gingerly. She delicately attempted to roll her shoulder, but stopped abruptly when the muscles screamed in agony, and she bit down hard on her lip to keep from whimpering. Her knee was swollen and discolored and it hurt ferociously to bend or walk on it.

Small cuts and abrasions peppered the rest of her skin, looking small and red and angry in the bright bathroom light. She gently fingered a particularly harsh wound skating along her jaw line and wondered if she would have any scars from this particular brush with death.

The perusal of her injuries had served to further dishearten Gillian, and she pulled a fluffy robe from a hook on the back of the bathroom door, donning it in lieu of actually getting dressed. Turning her back on her morose reflection, Gillian padded through her house and set about making a pot of coffee. But the asinine chore was not enough to keep her brain from skipping rampantly through yesterday's events: the interview, the explosion, the hospital, the fight.

_"Cal,"_ her mind whispered an hypnotic mantra. _"Cal..."_

He was an over-bearing presence in her head, and her eyes prickled as she struggled for some semblance of inner peace.

With the smell of coffee percolating and the gentle gurgle of the machine to ground her, Gillian forced her mind to focus on the case and, perhaps most importantly, the scene outside of the clinic just before the explosion. She was a key eye-witness--no one else on sight had such extensive training in deception detection.

Gillian sat at her kitchen table, head in hands, eyes tightly closed.

The weather had been bleak and cold, so very cold. But the throngs of people surrounding the crime scene had helped to raise the temperature with their combined body heat.

She remembered it had been loud, utter chaos. People were shouting at one another, clambering to garner attention for this cause, or that cause, angry for the sake of being angry. The howling wind had not carried away even a fraction of the din present at the clinic. The bedlam was at such a state that even reporters had to shout into their microphones to be heard.

Gillian's eyes flew open, bright and crystal blue.

She had an idea.

* * *

Gillian placed her phone in its cradle, rolling her stiff neck across her shoulders. Following her six-A.M. epiphany, she had proceeded to slip into some professional, but comfortable work clothes and head into work for an early day. Since arriving at the barren office, she had been on the phone with countless people, hoping her efforts would eventually lead to a break-through in the case.

She had been calling various news stations, being both diplomatic and forceful in asking for their uncut footage of the clinic before and after the explosion. Considering just how many reporters were present, Gillian was hoping one of them had filmed the bomber without even realizing it.

Gillian was so absorbed in her work that it came as a shock when there was a knock on her office door.

"Come in," she called.

"Hey," Loker popped his head in with a small smile.

"Loker, what are you doing here?" she wondered, returning his smile.

He gave her that perplexed look her wore so well. "I...work here?"

Gillian chuckled, "Yes, but--" she caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall. "Is it ten-thirty already?" she asked, incredulous.

He laughed, "Just how hard did you hit your head?"

"Funny." She noticed the large tupperware container in his arms.

Loker must have seen her gaze shift, because he spoke up, "Oh, right. This is why I came to see you."

He walked over to her desk, holding the container towards her. He said, "I heard about your...unfortunate tumble yesterday. Thought you could use a treat."

Inside the container, a large assortment of cookies and brownies were nestled snugly. Gillian felt a genuine smile blossom across her face, and she clapped her hands together. After a quick once-over, she selected a brownie filled with brightly colored M&Ms.

"Thank you, Loker! This looks great," she gushed.

"Don't thank me. Thank Lightman for that inane case he sent me and Torres on," he responded dryly, although he seemed pleased at how much she appreciated the gesture.

After Loker left and the brownie was nothing more than a smattering of crumbs across the desk, Gillian was forced to confront her overactive mine once more. She was alarmed and a little dismayed that Cal had not been in to see her. A tiny part of her had held on to the hope that he would waltz into her office, brusque and cocky as usual.

Her battered body was even more sore from her long morning, and as she stood she stretched slowly and carefully. The doctor had not prescribed her any pain medication, informing her that with a head injury, she shouldn't take anything stronger than ibuprofen. This was perfectly fine with Gillian, who had spent what felt like a lifetime dealing with other people's addictions.

She could handle a few aches and pains.

Although she was reluctant to leave the sanctuary of her office, Gillian knew the video tapes she had spent all morning procuring would be arriving soon. That, and the brownie she had just munched on had left her extremely thirsty. She slipped from her office and stealthily made her way towards the vending machine.

Her only dollar was crinkled, and after the fifth try resulted in the machine spitting it back to her, she was about to give up.

"I've got you, Foster."

Gillian nearly jumped, and warmth rose to her cheeks with her surprise. She hadn't heard Cal approach. He fished around his pocket and grabbed a few coins.

"Thanks," she said gratefully, studying him closely as he shoved the change into the vending machine. His expression was bland, but his features appeared worn and haggard, and Gillian knew she wasn't the only one who'd been unable to sleep last night.

"Don't mention it," Cal responded. He turned to leave, but then seemed to remember something, and said, "I'm going to be headed over to the precinct in a few. Was gonna bring Torres. I figured you should probably take it easy, yeah?"

Gillian felt a rather irrational surge of hurt at this, and she struggled not to let it show on her face. Instead, she replied, "You may not want to do that."

This caused him to stop his retreat and finally meet her gaze for the first time that day. His sudden, complete focus was like a kick in the chest, knocking the air from her lungs.

"Why not?" he finally inquired after a strained pause. To buy herself some time, she selected a soda from the machine, not answering until it tumbled noisily to the opening at the bottom.

"I have a bunch of videos that should be arriving any minute. Probably something that could use your attention."

"Videos of what?" Cal questioned.

"Before the--" Gillian battled to maintain her professionalism as she remembered the unfortunate events from yesterday. She took a deep breath, "Before the explosion, I had to fight my way through a mess of people, from demonstrators to police officers to reporters."

"Yeah?" he seemed suddenly impatient, and she lost a bit of her momentum, put-off, causing her to miss the fleeting, despairing look that passed over Cal's face.

"Well," she began again, cutting straight to the point. "I called the television stations that had reporters on the scene and asked for their uncut videos of the scene outside the clinic."

Cal nodded. "Alright. I'll stay here."

Gillian refused to allow her thoughts to dwell on the rush of relief that flooded through her veins at this statement. Her inner conflict must have shown in her expression because Cal looked like he wanted to say something. But then he ran a hand roughly over his face and the look was gone. Nervous, Gillian, bent to retrieve her soda, biting back a hiss from the strain it put on her tender wounds.

"D'you have any idea how much sugar is in that soda?" he asked with a wry quirk of his mouth. His unprovoked, familiar humor dispelled some of the thick tension between them, and Gillian smiled, feeling lighter.

Their argument was put aside. For now.

"Would it help or hurt my case if I told you I was using this soda to wash down a brownie?" she played along, grateful for the return to normalcy, even knowing it wouldn't last long.

Cal shook his head. "C'mon, love. Let's go check on those videos, yeah?"

* * *

Gillian leaned heavily against the wall of the lab as Loker ran another video through their high-tech computer set-up. The mob from the clinic was displayed on a large screen, blown up and focused in on individuals, their expressions and body language. Cal sat next to Loker, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, studying the screen intently.

They had been hoping that one of the many anti-abortion groups present at the scene would contain the perpetrator, but so far, they had seen no unusual behavior in the throng of people. After hours of perusing these videos, they were all growing restless.

"Got any other ideas, Foster?" Cal flippantly asked.

Gillian tried not to let her exhaustion show, but she had really been banking on the video tapes panning out. She ignored the caustic comment, briefly closing her eyes.

"Are you alright?" a feminine voice queried. Gillian blinked her eyes open. Torres had just entered the lab, and her question to Gillian had Cal and Loker ignoring the video in favor of looking at her.

"I'm fine," Gillian insisted, and because she worked with experts in deception detection, added, "I'm just a bit tired."

"Looks like you could've used another night in the hospital," Loker noted.

"Thanks," she replied sarcastically.

She hadn't wanted to stay a moment longer in that hospital. The sights, the sounds, the smells, everything at that hospital served to exacerbate her pain, even simply sitting in the waiting room.

Gillian froze. "Cal?"

He spun in his chair, eyebrows quirked. "Yeah?"

"I think I have another idea."

"Wow, Foster's on fire!" Loker cheered.

"Well, we shouldn't get too excited," Gillian said, pushing from the wall. "But, when I was at the hospital, I saw some news footage of Daniel Stewart's murder. They were interviewing his wife." She walked over towards Cal and Loker, motioning with her hands as she spoke. "And something was off about her. She was lying when she talked about missing him and what a great husband he was."

Cal nodded, "We've been focusing on the fact that Stewart ran an abortion clinic."

"And it's gotten us nowhere," Gillian agreed.

Torres piped up, "Hold on for a second. Aren't we forgetting the fact that the clinic was just blown up? Why would an angry wife blow up the clinic?"

Cal stood abruptly and say, "Let's go find out, shall we?"

A/N: I hope this wasn't too boring of a chapter! I'm anxious to know what you think. Please let me know! =]


	6. Chapter 6

Title: So Cold (Chapter 6/?)  
Author: Kat  
Rating: T (PG-13)  
Genre: Angst/Mystery  
Spoilers: Up to and including Secret Santa  
Summary: Lightman and Foster take on a high-profile case as Foster struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan.  
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Lie to Me. The song So Cold is by Breaking Benjamin, and I own no part of that, either.

A/N: Chapter 6! I was supposed to have it up a few days ago, but unexpectedly had to go out of town. But it's a bit longer than usual, so hopefully that makes up for it. =] And thank you SO much for all the reviews, favorites, and alerts!

Chapter 6

Gillian sat in the passenger seat of the car, staring listlessly out the window, barely registering the passing scenery and trying to ignore the aching in her head. When she stole glances at Cal, she couldn't help but notice the white of his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel or the hard set of his jaw from his clenched teeth, and she felt a deep pang of disappointment in her chest. She knew she was the sole cause of this rift between them, and as they sat in tense, uncomfortable silence, she felt this space slowly widening.

If she were completely frank and objective, she would admit that she was being dishonest with both herself and Cal. Alec had been dishonest, hiding the truth about his drug habit, his fidelity. Following the loss of their daughter, he had gradually poisoned their marriage with his lies, distorting their trusted bond beyond recognition, and while Gillian knew she wasn't blameless, she also was not too blind to recognize the importance honesty, and the lack thereof, contributed to the destruction of her marriage.

She turned and studied Cal openly. His cheeks were scruffy, and his shirt was wrinkled, but his tousled hair and far-away stare caused a wave of affection to wash over her, and though Gillian's thoughts and feelings were muddled from the intensity of the explosion, she knew one thing with utter certainty. She was not going to be the cause of the dissolution of their close friendship.

"Cal?" she broke the silence as the car slid to a stop against the curb in front of the late doctor's house.

"Yeah?" he answered, putting the car in park and turning to look at her, elbow resting casually against the steering wheel. She couldn't help but notice that his shoulders were squared in her direction, and his arms were away from his body. She felt a small surge of confidence at his open, attentive body language.

Gillian licked her lips, struggling for words, and her response was broken by several pauses while she gathered her thoughts, "It...it wasn't really fair of me...to ask you to be detached. I was in an accident, and I could've been killed." She was surprised by the hitch in her voice, but Cal stayed silent and allowed her to continue, "You weren't digging into my personal life. You're my best friend, and you were concerned. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

During her disjointed apology, Gillian's gaze had drifted away from Cal's, but as she finished she allowed herself to look into his eyes; they were narrowed slightly, his lips pressed into a thin line. His intense study of her made her feel like squirming in her seat, but she resisted.

She must have looked awfully tired and beat-to-hell because Cal responded easily, "Well, good. 'Cause I was worried 'bout you. And I'm glad you're okay."

"Thanks," she smiled. They climbed out of the car, Gillian at a slower pace due to her swollen knee and pulled shoulder. When she finally stood up straight, she saw Cal resting his forearms atop the roof of the car, gazing at her from across the vehicle. She blinked even in the dull winter daylight, and the light shot white-hot pain through her eyes and into her head. She gripped the car door to keep from swaying.

"But, just so you know, this conversation's not over," he told her sternly, a spark of his old drive and tenacity peering at her in the dim winter sunlight. She fought the urge to swallow, struggled to keep a placid expression in place, and refused to dwell on the rush of gratitude that enveloped her. He cared.

"It's not?" she asked, crossing her arms across her chest in a move not entirely a result of the biting cold.

"Oh, far from it, love," he responded with a short nod. After they shut their car doors in near-unison, he looked towards the house and said with a wry quirk of his eyebrows, "Well, let's go hassle the widow, yeah?"

She shook her head at the joke, but her eyes were bright as she followed him up to the front door.

In a rare change of roles, Cal took care of the majority of the introductions and pleasantries, even taking charge of the first bout of casual questions meant to put the widow, Lacy Stewart, at ease with their presence. Cal offered condolences and spoke vaguely about threats sent daily to the clinic and Dr. Stewart, specifically. Gillian felt like a wallflower, perched in an armchair and slightly separated from Cal and Lacy both physically and mentally.

She struggled to keep her posture from visibly wilting, but the dull ache that had taken up residence in her head since the explosion had grown to an insistent throbbing. Her vision swam for a moment under a particularly forceful barrage of painful pulses. She blinked to clear her vision and found herself the center of attention. Lacy Stewart looked concerned, her lips moving, and Gillian realized that she was being addressed.

"I'm sorry," Gillian placed a hand over her eyes for a moment. "What did you say?"

"Foster, why don't you go sit in the car, alright?" Cal suggested. His eyebrows were drawn, but otherwise Gillian didn't recognize the expression on his face and blamed it on her exhaustion and headache. "I'll finish up and take you home."

She shook her head, feeling guilty. "No, I'm fine. I'm sorry, I just have a headache."

"I'll get you some aspirin," Lacy offered, rising from her seat and briskly walking out of the room.

"You sure everything's alright?" Cal spoke up once they were alone.

"Yeah," she replied, and because she felt guilty and wanted to explain, went on, "I've just had this headache since I left the hospital. Because of the head injury, the doctor didn't want to prescribe any pain medication."

"Plonker," Cal commiserated, ducking his head to study her face and make sure she smiled at his comment.

"I'll be fine," she said. She considered asking him what he'd gotten so far from his brief interview with Lacy, but wasn't sure if she wanted to admit that she had not heard any of their conversation, let alone picked up on facial expressions, vocal pitch, or body language.

"Here you are, Dr. Foster," Lacy returned, carrying a glass of water and a bottle of pills. She handed the items to Gillian and studied her face with poorly-concealed curiosity: the giant bruise, the scratches. "Do you mind if I ask what happened?"

Gillian ignored the urge to catch Cal's gaze for his tacit support. She answered in a steady voice, "I was caught by the clinic bombing yesterday."

Lacy's eyes opened wide, and she threw a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my God! That's so scary! And you came to work the next day? I couldn't do that...you're tougher than you look."

Gillian felt the opening, a perfect segue-way from talking about her near-miss with death to talking about Lacy coping with her husband's murder. Before she could formulate a question, Cal spoke up.

"Yes, right. Experienced a bit of a tragedy yourself, didn't you?" he asked, head slightly tilted as he studied the widow.

There was a long pause, and Lacy's eyes grew watery before she answered, "It has been a struggle."

But Cal and Gillian were not moved by tears. Tears could be faked, and it was their jobs to look for something deeper, more innate.

"Tell me about your husband," Cal offered, sitting up and resting his elbows on his knees.

Lacy brought a hand to her necklace and said, "Dan was a wonderful husband. I just-"

"I'm gonna stop you right there," Cal interrupted, and boldly declared, "See, you're lying. "

Gillian had noticed the obvious manipulator, as well. She pushed her hair from her face and sat up to maintain her attentiveness.

"I'm...what?" Lacy looked surprised at Cal's blatant remark. Then her eyebrows furrowed and her forehead wrinkled in righteous anger. "I'm not lying! Dan was a good man! He took all this flack from crazy anti-abortion activists and still remained happy and optimistic about life. He wasn't some cold, aloof doctor, either. He cared about his patients! I can't believe some nut-job took him away from me! I can't...I just..." She seemed to struggle for words for a moment.

"So he was a real great bloke, just a lousy husband?" Cal asked.

Lacy sighed deeply and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her entire expression exuded sadness: the down-turned mouth and tight eyebrows. Her voice wavered as she spoke, "Dr. Lightman, I loved my husband, and he was a good man. But we were separating." She took a moment to take a steadying breath. "Dan had been cheating on me. I think-" A broken laugh. "I think that was his way of coping with the stress of his job. And I couldn't handle that. Three days ago I called a lawyer and told Dan I would be filing for divorce."

Gillian thought the woman looked genuinely heartbroken at the dissolution of her marriage, but Gillian didn't exactly trust herself to make the judgment on her own. She felt useless and impaired from her injuries and longed to return to the status quo, to be sharp, intelligent, independent. But she didn't have to wait long for Cal to speak up.

"D'you happen to have the name of the woman he was having an affair with?" he inquired, his tone losing the accusatory edge.

"It was a nurse at the clinic," Lacy laughed bitterly. "Nicole or something. I don't know her last name." She stood. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of preparations to make for Daniel's funeral and burial."

As Lacy led them to the front door, Gillian spared one last glance into the woman's face. She looked so sad and broken, and it was obvious that she had still been very much in love with her husband. Gillian's heart tugged in empathy, and she took a step towards the widow.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Gillian spoke softly, compassionately, and as she caught Lacy's gaze before the woman shut the door, she knew that the instant they had driven away, the wife of the late Daniel Stewart would be in tears. She turned and followed Cal to the car.

The waning afternoon light was giving way to an early winter dusk, and Gillian marveled at the speed in which another day had gone by. She felt like collapsing into her car seat, but forced her body to move with grace and restraint. She felt Cal's eyes on her as she buckled her seat belt, and glanced up.

"Have you eaten today?" he asked suddenly.

Gillian crossed her legs (mindful of her knee) and smoothed out the fabric of her slacks before replying, "I had a brownie for breakfast."

Cal's nose crinkled. "D'you really think that counts?" She opened her mouth to respond, but he interrupted with, "Rhetorical, Foster. Let's go get dinner."

"Cal," she said, cajoling, "I'm tired, and my whole body aches. The last thing I want to do is go out for dinner."

He smiled. "Perfect. We'll order in."

* * *

Gillian gripped her fork, absently pushing the chicken on her plate around in its yellow curry sauce. Cal had called in an order from her favorite Thai restaurant on the drive to his house, and the conversation between them had been mostly lacking and stinted, at best. Now dinner was coming to an end, and with Emily at Zoe's, there was no buffer between them.

"You've barely touched your supper," Cal finally spoke up, after watching Gillian play with the food on her plate for an indeterminable moment of awkward silence.

"I know," Gillian sighed. "I just ache all over and don't have much of an appetite."

They were seated across from one another at the dining room table, and for a moment, Cal looked as though he wanted to reach across and touch her, offering a gesture of tactile support. But he didn't. Gillian hoped his concern for her injuries would soften his usual tough demeanor, and they would postpone their argument once more.

The silence between them stretched on once more. Cal was slouching in his chair, staring off at a point above her shoulder. She took the time to study him. His shirt was rumpled and face was scruffy. The lines around his eyes seemed more defined than usual, causing him to look tired, older. His hair was messy, and Gillian imagined what would happen if she reached across the table and ran her fingers through it. Would he smile? Hold her hand in place?

"You were almost killed," Cal's voice snapped her out of her daydream. "If you'd been just...just the slightest bit faster, I wouldn't be talking to you right now."

Shocked, Gillian pushed her chair away from the table, reflexively distancing herself from him and the morbidness of his words.

Cal continued, voice growing sterner, angrier, "You could've been in bloody _pieces_ right now, Foster!"

"Cal!" she cried, jaw going slack, and she was back there, in front of the clinic. There was the shouting, the crowds, the cold. Her eyes roamed the table top, and she thought of how she had almost died, how her last thoughts before her head hit the pavement had been of nothing.

"Look at me!" he commanded in a low voice. She snapped her gaze to his and tried to remember the last time he had looked so haggard, but so passionate. He went on, softer and more bitter, "You were almost killed yesterday. And it would've been my fault."

His abrupt change left Gillian confused, and she struggled to make sense of what he was saying. His fault?

"It was a coincidence," Gillian spoke up. "A freak accident. I know you like to take the blame for things, but how could this possibly be your fault?"

Cal scooted to the edge of his seat and placed his elbows on the table, leaning forward and staring at her with such intensity that she felt her breath catch in her chest. His hands were clenched tight into fists, but when he saw her notice the gesture, he relaxed them and placed his palms on the table.

"Why did you leave the police station yesterday?" he asked.

"You know why I left," she responded, dropping her gaze.

"No, I really don't," he flippantly stated. "Look at me. And tell me why you left." She moved to answer, but he interrupted. "Don't insult me, Foster. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Been ignoring it for weeks now, for you."

Frustrated, Gillian stood and paced the length of the table once, snidely replying, "You seem to have all the answers. Why do you need me to tell you?"

"Because I care about you, that's why," Cal said, standing, as well. He walked to her side of the table and stood in front of her, halting her movements. Without her heels she felt small, and the pain and exhaustion hovering over her made him appear that much stronger and immovable.

Standing a foot away from him, seeing his frustration and agony up close, knocked all the fight out of her. Her lower lip trembled.

"Cal," her voice was quiet, "It's not your fault I was caught in the clinic bombing." He shook his head and rocked back on his heels.

"You left the police station yesterday because you wanted to avoid me," he said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were stormy. "Been acting this way for weeks now, haven't you? But I didn't push you. I respected your bleeding space, and you almost died because of it!"

For all his anger and vexation, Cal was surprisingly gentle when he placed his hands on her arms, grasping her lightly. She hadn't realized she was chilled, but his palms felt so warm against her. He was looking at her with such care and concern, she felt tears prickle the back of her eyes (exacerbated by the lack of sleep and incessant headache.)

"Afghanistan," Gillian blurted out.

"Come again?" he inquired.

She took a deep breath, saying, "Afghanistan, Cal. I haven't been able to sleep because I'm either having nightmares about...about you in Afghanistan, or I'm unable to even fall asleep because I'm thinking about it."

She didn't feel better for finally telling him. There was no weight off her shoulders. She only felt vulnerable, small and fragile.

"Why Afghanistan?" he wondered. "I mean, that was over a month ago, and I've certainly been in life-threatening situations before."

Gillian felt a lump rise in her throat and she swallowed painfully, worried he wasn't taking her seriously. Why didn't he understand?

"Don't do that," Cal told her, noticing the myriad of emotion she was too tired to keep from him. "I'm tryin' to understand, darling. Tell me."

Gillian had to pull from his grasp. His soft tone, kind eyes, and warm touch were causing her thoughts to be jumbled. She wistfully longed for the more brusque, harder Cal that was a much more dominant presence, ironically noting that she had been happy this harder Cal was not present earlier.

She placed one hand on her hip and one to the back of her neck and replied, "I guess Afghanistan was just the proverbial straw. You were so far away, Cal. And there was nothing I could do! I felt so powerless..." She licked her lips, glanced at his face and risked continuing, "It's just so difficult going through that time after time."

"Going through what?" Cal prompted after she was silent for a moment.

"Coming so close to losing you," Gillian finally admitted, feeling spent at her confession. She looked to Cal pleadingly, willing him to understand.

He studied her with an unfamiliar look on his face. His eyes seemed darker than usual and Gillian felt a rush of fear through her body, causing her chest to feel tight and her limbs to go numb. He was going to push her to confess more, to edge the boundaries of their tenuous relationship.

"No, Cal," she said, firmly. They both knew the depth and weight of their conversation, what they were _not_ saying.

"Why, not?" he asked. "We beat ourselves up enough, as it is. Why won't you let me even talk about something more between us?"

"This is why I didn't want to tell you about what's been bothering me!" she cried, feeling any control of their conversation slipping away. "You are always taking gambles, and I have to keep you grounded. And that's what I'm doing now, keeping us steady. We can't talk about this. I'm going home." Gillian left the dining room in a hurry, quickly gathering her coat, hoping to leave and pretend the conversation had never happened.

Cal blocked the front door, arms at his sides and hands clenching and un-clenching. He was seething mad, and answered, "You're wrong. With you, I have played things so _bloody_ cautiously! You've got to see that!"

"Move, Cal," she implored, desperation creeping into her voice.

"Tell me you don't love me," Cal demanded.

"Cal-"

"Say you don't love me, and I'll let you leave," Cal entreated.

Boldly, Gillian looked into his eyes and calmly said, "I don't love you."

"Liar," he scoffed, before turning and leaving her alone in the foyer.

Gillian waited until she was safely in the car before she imagined what would have happened if she had stayed: if she had shoved Cal right into that front door and pressed against him close enough to feel his heart beat, to smell his aftershave, to taste his lips. What would he have done?

She knew the end result to that scenario, and thought, bitter and forlorn, _"We would never work out."_

_

* * *

_

A/N: I am so nervous about this chapter (which is why it took a little while.) Please let me know what you think.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: So Cold (Chapter 7/?)  
Author: Kat  
Rating: T (PG-13)  
Genre: Angst/Mystery  
Spoilers: Up to and including Secret Santa  
Summary: Lightman and Foster take on a high-profile case as Foster struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan.  
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Lie to Me. The song So Cold is by Breaking Benjamin, and I own no part of that, either.

A/N: I hate this chapter. I re-wrote this at least three times, and I still hate it. This is why it took so long to get out.

Chapter 7

Gillian walked down the entrance hall at The Lightman Group, heels clicking out her strong, purposeful strides. The short, clipped noises sounded muffled to her own ears. The white walls and corresponding decorations seemed fuzzy and indistinct, but she hardly noticed.

After leaving Cal's house last night, Gillian had refused to drive home. Her thoughts had tumbled mercilessly through her mind, banging and cluttering up her head, and it had all just been too much to handle. The car had been bitterly cold after being parked in the unforgiving DC winter night, and her entire body shook as she drove. Her argument with Cal had left a deep, sucking wound in her chest. She couldn't think straight, couldn't breathe deep and just _relax_.

Everything was going to change.

But she had eventually driven home, slinking through the shadows of her house like she didn't belong there, and collapsed into the deep folds of her comforter. She had slept, but fitfully. She had known, been so bitterly cognizant to the fact that she would need her sleep, her strength. For this. For today. She needed to appear to be fine.

Gillian walked with purpose through the office building. Her slender shoulders were thrown back, squared with her hips. Her chin was slightly tilted up, back straight, impeccable posture. She took care that her strides were neither sluggish nor hurried, and her arms rested lightly at her sides, hands gracefully brushing against her dress as she walked.

Her sheath dress slid against her skin as she moved, the bright blue fabric a pale mimic to the stark blue of her eyes. A matching sweater hid the deep bruises peppering her arms, and the heels of her black, knee-high boots exacerbated the pain of her busted knee with each excruciating step. Her hair was straightened, skimming her shoulders as she moved.

She smiled at Loker and Torres as she instructed them to contact the police about receiving an employee list for Dr. Stewart's clinic. She laughed with Heidi as they bemoaned the bleak winter weather and slippery DC sidewalks. And when she retreated to her office, she left her door open so they could see her smile, her attitude. She was normal. She was fine. She was Dr. Gillian _fucking _Foster. And she needed today, needed to keep up pretenses, to force the act, the veneer, to push through the day, desperately hoping the stress wouldn't crack and blemish the fragile surface.

But it was a facade.

Her mind was a whirlwind of fear and doubt. She kept thinking back to last night: Cal's deep voice and dark eyes, his huge and overwhelming presence. Their argument lingered around her, hovering dense and noxious like a miasma. All their words, their looks, they clung to her skin, her hair, her clothes, and the scent of them was staggering, all-consuming.

It had taken an insurmountable measure of strength and willpower to drag Gillian into work. She passionately wished to take a few days from her stock of vacation time and leave, seclude herself until the whole argument with Cal had blown by, and he had moved on to obsessing over something, someone else. But when Gillian closed her eyes, she saw the tortured face of Lily Stewart. Impending divorce or not, Lily had been in love with the doctor, and whenever the thought of leaving skirted through Gillian's thoughts, the desolate visage of the widow burned bright at the back of her retinas, and a wave of guilt passed over her.

So although she knew retreat was the safest option, Gillian vowed to stick around until the completion of their murder case. Once they unraveled the tangled threads of the crime, _then _she could take a few days off of work.

The morning had been spent delegating tasks to Loker and Torres. The most important thing for them to do was to pore over the employee list, searching for Stewart's elusive mistress. Lacy had claimed the woman was named, "Nicole," but this was not an uncommon name, and the clinic had been the largest of its kind in Maryland. She glanced briefly at the clock. She had asked Loker and Torres to contact the police and procure the employee list over half an hour ago. She frowned lightly, wondering why they were taking so long.

Gillian scooted her chair from behind her desk, leaning heavily on the armrests to put the least possible strain on her knee, wincing when the weight placed a sharp, agonizing pressure onto her pulled shoulder. Once upright, she wiped the pained look from her face and gently smoothed the wrinkles of her dress. With a last, deep breath, she plastered on a calm, content expression and walked to the lab.

She heard his voice from the hall before she reached the entrance of the lab. Not allowing herself time to consider returning later, she pushed open the door. No one paid her any mind as she stood in the back of the room, observing.

Torres, Loker, and Cal were all sitting in front of the large monitors. The video showed a large anti-abortion demonstration. Dozens of people were crowded together in a park, shouting, some with bullhorns, others holding large signs. Gillian's eyes fell from the video to the back of Cal's head. He had an elbow propped on the desk, cheek pressed against a loose fist as he slouched comfortably. She took her lower lip between her teeth and held her hands slightly away from her body, mind skimming over a multitude of emotions before settling on righteous indignation.

"Hey," she spoke up, and three heads turned to regard her. She ignored Cal and focused on Loker and Torres. "Did you ask the police about the employee list? It's been a half hour. It really shouldn't have taken long."

Loker had a bland expression on his face, but Torres had the decency to look slightly chagrined. But it was Cal who replied, saying, "Oh, I sort of filched Loker and Torres. Wanted more eyes on this lot." He gestured to the large screen.

"I thought we were going to look into the mistress," Gillian responded. Her eyes skirted over the two young employees, hesitating to start an argument in front of them.

Cal was all attitude when she first walked into the lab, so she was expecting a snarky response and brusque demeanor to her suggesting they follow another lead. But as he studied her, the corner of his lip twitched slightly, and in an instant his entire attitude changed.

"Of course," he said easily, "Just wanted to get these two started on something."

He pushed away from the table, standing and walking to join her in the doorway. Closer now, he spoke in a softer, more familiar tone, "You and me," he gestured between them, "are goin' back to Maryland." He fished around his pocket, pulling out a slightly crumpled piece of paper.

"There are two nurses that worked for the clinic who are named Nicole," Cal said, waving the paper. "Feelin' up to some interviews?"

Although his intonation sounded light-hearted, Gillian could tell by the tightness of his lips that he was still upset with her. The happy charade she had worked all morning on maintaining crumbled when faced with Cal's discontent.

"Of course," she unconsciously mimicked his earlier words. She turned to lead him from the lab, wanting to leave quickly before everyone else caught on to her act and the uncharacteristic awkwardness between the two heads of the Lightman Group. But her efforts were futile, and she felt Torres' eyes burning into her back as the lab door closed behind them.

Gillian's eyes darted towards Cal walking alongside of her. He ignored her stare, a muscle in his jaw jumping, and she knew he was agitated. She felt a tug in her chest, a brief quiver of longing to return to their usual camaraderie. She had to walk a bit faster than she would have liked to, given her injuries, but Cal set a brisk pace, and she was determined not to fall behind.

"Have the police talked to either of these women?" she asked conversationally.

"Just perfunctory interviews. The police talked to all the employees. Neither admitted to shaggin' the good doctor, though," Cal said as they reached his car. In an uncharacteristic show of chivalry, he unlocked the passenger side door, holding it open as Gillian climbed into her seat, and then closed it gently behind her.

"Thanks," she belatedly offered as he slid into the driver's seat. She wondered why he didn't bring up their argument from last night, throw his cold words in her face once more. This would be the most opportune time to talk to Cal. He had to focus on driving and wouldn't be able to study her every facial twitch. She blinked against the harsh winter light as Cal drove the car from the dungeon-like parking garage onto the D.C. city streets.

Last night he had asked her why, why Afghanistan? And as they drove in silence, this question kept repeating in the back of her mind. True, Cal had always been reckless, and she had always taken it upon herself to worry and care for him. This was not a new revelation, nor was it particularly strange or unwarranted. Cal felt the equal need to constantly butt into her business and personal affairs, all in the name of friendly interest and consideration.

Uneasily, she recalled Cal's dark eyes and uninhibited words. She felt like she should talk, but she didn't know what she should say. She didn't like that his harsh, candid words from last night were lingering over them, ready to be pulled down and studied without warning.

"Foster," he broke Gillian from her reverie and spared her the task of finding something to say.

"Yeah?" she prompted when he didn't continue. His eyes were fixed on the road.

He gave a slight shake of his head and started over, "Gillian. Let's get dinner tonight."

A muscle in Cal's jaw jumped, and he gripped the steering wheel tightly.

"We did dinner together last night," she pointed out delicately.

"Please." He risked a short glance in her direction, and she could more keenly observe his tense, anxious expression. His voice was short, clipped.

"Okay," she had to indulge him. "Sure."

"Great," he responded, and the unconscious quirk of his lips caused her heart to flutter dangerously in her chest. She didn't know what he was planning, what he was up to, but if her acquiescence could put such a look on his face, she was helpless to turn him down.

* * *

Their first visit from the two-person list had been lucrative only in the sense that they effectively eliminated the notion of Nicole Morris being Stewart's mistress. Morris was a married, thirty-something mother of two who had been positively flustered with Cal's curt demeanor. Gillian had stepped in after a short moment to soothe the woman's agitation. Without the possibility of Morris being their mystery woman, and Gillian at the reigns, Cal could sit back and simply observe.

He marveled at the speed at which Gillian had recovered from her near-death experience. She was back to her passionate, intelligent, empathetic self, having garnered the full attention and trust of Morris by asking about her children. His eyes traveled over her face, taking advantage of her preoccupation. While the pallor of her skin and dark circles under her eyes told him she wasn't sleeping, these features were far overshadowed by the harsh purple bruise marring her cheek. She had several small abrasions, harder to observe under a layer of make-up, but they still caused his chest to tighten, and he had to fight not to clench his hands into fists.

He knew something wasn't quite right with his partner, had known for weeks. But despite penchant for gambles, where Gillian was concerned, he liked to play his cards close to the chest. But her brief stint in the hospital had clouded his judgment, and he was finding it increasingly hard to distance himself from their close friendship. While he wanted to be strong and supportive in her time of need, his fear and anxiety were rapidly over-taking his sense of duty. He felt ready to crack.

Cal tried to tamp down his distress. They were getting dinner together later. And if she thought he had let this go, she would be disappointed.

* * *

A/N: I dunno why I had so much trouble with this chapter. The next chapter's coming out a lot easier, though. I apologize for the filler. =] Feel free to let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

Title: So Cold (Chapter 8/?)  
Author: Kat  
Rating: T (PG-13)  
Genre: Angst/Mystery  
Spoilers: Up to and including Secret Santa  
Summary: Lightman and Foster take on a high-profile case as Foster struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan.

**A/N**: Hi all! Back from limbo. Real life got rather crazy and terrifying for awhile (not to worry you-all is well.) I have part of Chapter 9 written as well, so expect that update MUCH sooner than this one. But to help make up for the wait, this chapter is a bit longer.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any part of Lie to Me. The song So Cold is by Breaking Benjamin, and I own no part of that, either.

_If you find your family, don't you cry  
In this land of make believe, dead and dry  
You're so cold  
But you feel alive  
Lay your hand on me, one last time_

**Chapter Eight**

Gillian allowed Cal to interrupt her steady conversing with Nicole Morris with a terse, "Foster." He inclined his head towards the door. She smiled apologetically to Morris, who was clutching a coffee mug tightly and looking back and forth between the two partners.

"We really shouldn't waste any more of your time, Mrs. Morris," Gillian spoke as she stood. "Again, I sincerely apologize if our questions offended you."

She concentrated on the sounds her boots made against the stunning hardwood floor as she walked in an attempt to ignore Cal and Morris's agitated silence. While Gillian had been able to coax the woman into a friendly conversation about her children (following Cal's initial bullying tactics), his interruption had put a halt to any sort of cordial atmosphere. Listening to the click of her heels and idly glancing at the family portraits on the walls leading to the foyer, Gillian thought that it didn't really matter if the tenuous bond with Morris had been broken. She clearly was not the elusive mistress of the late Daniel Stewart.

"Thank you for speaking with us," Gillian said, watching curiously as Morris hovered by the front door. She noticed the other woman seemed very sad, and she kept wringing her hands together.

"We're sorry," Cal apologized. "Both for the loss of Dr. Stewart, and the loss of the clinic."

Gillian cast Cal a surprised glance, before nodding her goodbye to Morris, who murmured a few parting words and closed the door with a quiet _click_. She let herself believe, for a moment, that he had apologized to Morris as a way to relieve Gillian's unease. She allowed Cal to lead the way as they exited the quaint apartment complex. They had been forced to park a couple blocks from the apartment, and to make the trek easier, she struck up a casual conversation. The psychologist in her recognized the ploy, trying to control the situation by filling every empty space, taking hold of each detail.

"It was nice of you to apologize to Mrs. Morris," she commented, pulling her coat tighter around her body against the January chill. The traffic, though quite heavy, seemed rather muted. That, combined with the grey weather, provided a somber atmosphere. It made her feel strangely disconnected from the world around her, like a waking dream. She ignored the impulse to shake her groggy head. Maybe she needed more caffeine.

"You gonna praise me every time I do something nice?" Cal wryly asked, catching her elbow when she stepped onto a particularly slick sheet of ice. "Watch it, love."

Gillian flushed, despite the cold, dry air. "Thanks. And no, I just thought she really seemed to appreciate the sentiment."

"Yeah," he agreed, a puff of condensation floating in front of his face with his exhale. She wondered if he realized how much _she_ appreciated it.

They continued their walk in silence until they arrived at the car. Gillian pulled against the passenger side door handle, only to discover that it was still locked. She looked up at Cal to find him studying her silently. Her lips parted slightly in quiet surprise.

"Are you doing alright?" he inquired.

"Is this you checking in?" she countered. The corners of her lips were turned up, but there was a hard edge to her tone. She thought she saw his shoulders drop, and guilt gnawed at her gut. She softened her voice. "I'm fine. Really."

"Great!" he said with false cheer, unlocking the car doors. She struggled not to flinch when he used an excessive amount of force to shut his door. He was usually the emotionally volatile one, and her lack of sleep was making her cranky and unpredictable when she had been the calm, controlled one.

Gillian tried to concentrate on the scenery as they drove to make the lack of conversation seem less unsettling. Cal's incessant need to question her wellbeing did not make her feel grateful or cared for; it made her angry. It called to mind every instance he threw himself heedlessly into danger. The double standards he tossed about, as though his rule was law and everyone else was a second-class citizen. Gillian huffed in quiet indignation.

Cal dared to glance away from the road at the soft sound, but didn't say anything. Gillian was startled at the small clench of disappointment in her stomach when he didn't speak; why did she want a confrontation? She longed to run her fingers through her hair, but knew the restless gesture was an obvious tell, and she kept still.

She gave Cal a wry look as he sloppily parallel parked the car alongside the curb. The tires made a harsh grating sound as he dragged them against the curb. With a cocky smile and an unapologetic shrug, he cut the engine and hopped out of the car. Taking a deep breath, she followed at a slower pace, catching up to him as he was knocking on the door of the townhouse belonging to Nicole Jones.

He stepped back after knocking, rocking back and forth on his feet impatiently. Gillian studied the doorway. The door was recently painted. The crisp, mint green color was accented with a bright white trim. The railway leading up to the door was black wrought iron. She leaned against it in an attempt to peer into a window, but the drapes were drawn shut.

"Didn't Heidi call ahead to let her know we would be coming?" she asked, rubbing her hands together after the icy railing had cooled them.

"Yeah," Cal absently answered, shoving a hand roughly into his coat pocket and pulling out the crumpled paper containing the addresses of Nicole Morris and Nicole Jones. "This is the right address." He raised his hand and knocked once more, this time with greater force. The action caused the door to creak open.

"The door wasn't latched?" Gillian inquired warily. When Cal began pushing the door open further, she added, "We probably shouldn't just walk inside."

He chose to ignore her warning, and the door opened soundlessly under his hands, not even creaking on its hinges. She followed his noiseless steps into the foyer. The entryway was wide, leading into a simply furnished living room with clean, contemporary decor. The stillness of the house left her feeling rather uneasy, and she stepped closer to Cal's back.

"Nicole Jones!" he called. From further in the house, they heard a loud creak. Quicker now, but no less quietly, Cal moved through the living room, hanging a left into an informal dining room connected to the kitchen; there, he froze. Gillian, looking over his shoulder, followed his stare and immediately felt her stomach drop and her chest tighten first in surprise, then fear.

Standing in the kitchen was a woman. She was beautiful, with a petite build and blonde hair expertly curled to frame her face. But Gillian's eyes were fixated on the small pistol clutched tightly in the blonde's grip. The muzzle of the gun was pointed down, but she was holding it with so much force that her fist trembled. Slightly in front of Gillian, Cal lifted his arms from his sides, palms forward, in an attempt to appear non-threatening.

"We're not here to hurt you," he said with a quiet but firm tone. "The door wasn't latched." He took a small step forward.

The gun jumped immediatedly, and Gillian reacted instinctively, arms flying to her face and shoulders scrunching inward, creating a smaller target. Cal was a split-second after, arm reaching backwards, grasping Gillian's waist. He side-stepped so he was directly in between her and the gun. But he refused to retreat backwards and relinquish the step forward he had gained.

"Stay back!" the woman frantically cried .

"Alright, alright. We'll stay put. Just don't point that thing at us, yeah?" Cal replied evenly. "Nicole Jones, right? We only want to talk."

But Gillian was only vaguely aware of what he had said. Her focus was on the woman's voice: high-pitched, almost shrill, with a definite waver on her vowels. For now, Nicole was not prepared to shoot, but she was frightened and unstable. The gun returned to pointing at the floor.

"Who are you?" Nicole asked, the words quieter but no less shaky.

Cal explained, "I'm Cal Lightman, this is Gillian Foster. We're with the Lightman Group. Someone should've called to let you know we were coming."

Nicole's gaze shifted to the wall, then moved quickly back to Cal. Gillian leaned over his shoulder and looked. A phone was mounted on the wall, and cables dangled uselessly from the bottom of the apparatus. Directly in front of her, she could feel Cal's attitude shift. He changed his weight from foot to foot, restless, but restraining himself from moving forward.

Gillian used the period of nervous silence to glance around the kitchen. There were no dirty dishes and the stainless steel appliances practically glistened in the artificial light, perfectly clean. The kitchen was immaculate down to the last detail. In the back of her mind, Gillian felt that this detail should hold some significance, but she could not pinpoint the reason why.

"Did you unplug your phone?" Cal spoke, disrupting her thoughts.

Nicole looked down at the floor, and her free hand clenched into a fist.

"I can see you're ashamed, love," Cal explained, "about the phone. And you're hurting and scared. We only want to help you."

Now both of the woman's hands were shaking violently. Gillian did not wish to interrupt Cal, but Nicole looked ready to explode. Torn between disrupting the delicate control Cal had on the situation and longing to intervene, Gillian finally spoke.

"Nicole, these last few days have probably been very difficult for you," she spoke, willing away the waver in her voice. "We have an office, in D.C.. How about we go there to talk about things?"

"No," Nicole's words quaked nearly as much as her hands. "No, I'm staying right here."

"You were going to kill yourself," Cal abruptly stated.

"Wh-what?" the blonde's eyes widened, and her face blanched.

Cal continued, "You were going to kill yourself. The gun wasn't for an intruder." He took a bold step forward and pointed, "It was for _you_."

It seemed so obvious now that it was a wonder they didn't notice it in the first place: the unplugged phone, the shame and guilt. If she had grabbed the gun to ward off an intruder, wouldn't she have had it raised from the start? With her secret revealed, Nicole's face broke down into an expression of despair.

"You don't understand!" she lamented, voice imploring. "I've lost everything!"

"You're not just talking about the clinic, are you, love?" Cal asked gently. Gillian was slightly impressed to find that he had managed to move forward so subtly that she hadn't noticed. His back was now a good six feet in front of her although Nicole remained at least ten feet away from him. Nicole had noticed the change in distance a split-second after Gillian, and she gripped the gun with both hands, pointing it at Cal's chest.

"I said stay back!" she cried, voice bordering on hysterical.

"Cal," Gillian spoke softly, hating the combination of fear and warning she exhuded. with that one syllable.

"Alright, alright," he conceded, hands raised next to his shoulders.

Rather than back up, Cal turned sideways and moved backwards, creating a triangle between himself, Nicole, and Gillian. He caught his partner's eye and gave her a purposeful look.

_Distract her._

Gillian gave a small, almost imperceptible nod in his direction.

"You're hurt, Nicole," she said soothingly. "I'm a trained psychologist, and I can see on your face the pain that you're going through."

"You know nothing," Nicole spat, but her eyes were large and wet, a stark contrast to her ashen face.

"I know that in these past few days not only have you lost your job, your livelihood," Gillian's voice softened, "but you also lost Dr. Stewart. He was more than your boss, wasn't he, Nicole?" She gambled with the assumption that this was Stewart's mistress. Giant leaps were more Cal's forte; she usually liked having all of her ducks in a row before jumping into the fray. But her initiative proved useful.

"I loved him," Nicole whimpered.

"Of course you did," Gillian agreed. She tried to avoid looking in Cal's direction to keep from drawing attention his movements. From her peripheral vision, she saw he was slowly inching closer.

"I loved him," Nicole repeated, voice woeful. Gillian noticed that the woman had dropped one hand from the gun and was viciously digging her own fingernails into her palm. This observation still did not prepare her for the woman's sudden scream.

"I _loved _him, and he _betrayed _me!" she hollered, and her shrill voice turned into an angry, grating yell. Her free hand flew to her face, and she clenched her nails into the side of her face, letting loose with another incoherent scream.

Gillian was so startled at the mood change, and she struggled to switch gears. Nicole began waving her hands violently-one still clutching the pistol-in wild gestures.

"I gave him everything! He told me he loved me. He said he loved me!" Nicole threw her hands in the air. "But I never mattered to him." She gave a dry sob. "I _never _mattered."

Gillian struggled to gain control of the situation once more. Cal had requested her help, and the second she took over the conversation, Nicole had snapped. She felt guilty and useless. But how do you reason with someone so severely unhinged? She decided to fight for common ground.

"I understand some of what you're going through. I do," she added after hearing Nicole's half-scoff, half-sob. "My ex-husband was addicted to cocaine. I know what it's like when you don't matter at all to the one person you should matter most to. I know how that feels."

"No, you don't!" Nicole's cries shortened until they became little hiccups. "He broke up with me. He said his wife wanted a divorce, and it was a 'wake-up call' for him. Can you believe that?" She met Gillian's gaze and asked incredulously. "After all I'd given him, he up and leaves me for his wife?"

"You deserve better," Gillian said compassionately, cursing the small waver in her voice. She risked a look at Cal, silently willing him to hurry. He was frozen on the spot, staring at Nicole with a perplexed expression on his face. Gillian turned away too quickly to see the flash of fear that briefly twisted his countenance.

"You don't deserve any of this," Gillian continued. "He used you, and then passed away before you could find any closure in your relationship. You deserved more than what he gave you."

Nicole gave a low laugh, and the sound made Gillian's flesh crawl. "Oh, there was closure to our relationship." Suddenly, Gillian understood: the immaculate appearance of every room in the house, the self-harm via fingernail clenches, the violent mood swings, even the suicidal tendencies. It all made sense, and though a small part of her was frightened, a large part of her was brave, and an even larger part was a psychologist.

"You killed Dr. Stewart," Gillian breathed, astounded, but certain.

"He just messed up _everything_," Nicole explained, unperturbed by the accusation and back to waving her arms around frantically. "I just wanted to talk to him and make him see reason. And he called _me _crazy! He just wouldn't listen. Why couldn't he just listen. To. Me," she ground out the last part between clenched teeth, then gave a derisive laugh, "And all the pro- and anti-abortion nutjobs made it so easy!"

"You blew-up the clinic," Gillian finished, though she could have been talking to a wall for all the acknowledgement the crazed woman gave her.

"But the police weren't arresting Perkins or _anyone_," Nicole moaned. Tears began to stream down her face. "And I just missed Daniel so much! Nothing worked out like it was supposed to. Why did he have to screw up everything? We could've been so perfect." The topic of conversation seemed to renew her sorrow, and she raised the gun to her temple. "I had everything under control. I don't know how this could happen." Nicole squeezed her eyes shut, resigned to shoot.

"No!" Gillian cried, and three things happened simultaneously. Cal tackled the small blonde woman. The gun went off. Gillian screamed.

The moments that followed were hazy. Gillian felt as though her head were in a fog as she numbly moved towards the bodies on the kitchen floor. She vaguely heard Nicole's broken sobs; they sounded like they came from a great distance. Gillian's gaze was transfixed by the bright crimson blood drops marring the otherwise pristine vinyl tile. The red glared harshly against the white, and Gillian just stared.

"Foster," Cal's voice finally snapped her from her daze, and the harsh bark made her realize he must have called for her more than once. He was sitting, one leg outstretched, one knee drawn, a hand pressing against his forehead. Blood was seeping through the cracks between his fingers, dripping down the side of his face and staining the kitchen floor.

Gillian jolted. "Cal! Oh, my God. Are you alright?"

She knelt at his side, ignoring the discomfort such a position afforded her bruised body. Sitting so close to him, she noticed that he had procured the gun, and it was secure in his free hand. She reached for his head, unsurprised when he ducked out of the way.

"I'm fine, Gill, really. Just-just call the cops, alright?" he shrugged her off.

Gillian did as he asked, sliding to seated position across from him and using her cell phone to dial the precinct. She mentioned that Cal was in need of medical attention, ignoring his weak protests. After hanging up, the room fell into a silence broken only by Nicole's sporadic whimpers. Gillian studied the woman, curled in on herself, body shaking and rocking back and forth. She felt as though she should attempt to talk to the woman, try and calm her down a bit before help arrived, but she just couldn't bring herself to care enough. And somehow, studying her took Gillian's mind off of the blood on the floor, the gunshot, the scare.

Nicole had completely broken down, curled into a ball. She had retreated inside herself, and Gillian mused over the woman's psychological break, and how she got to this place, empty and sitting on her kitchen floor. Nicole was a control freak: the house in perfect order, the sudden, uncontrolled outbursts. If things did not go her way, she lashed out, like with the self-harm. Gillian winced slightly when she caught sight of the deep purple gouges Nicole had put on the side of her head with her fingernails. Gillian was not a gambler (Cal took enough risks for them both), but she would bet that a medical exam would find more evidence of self-mutilation.

Nicole's murder of Daniel Stewart had not been premeditated-not really. Stewart had tried to end their affair, and Nicole had panicked. Her perfect little world was crumbling around her, and she had to take back control of her life. The explosion, though-that was planned. Gillian avoided thinking about her personal involvement in this case, resisting the urge to touch a hand to her scraped and swollen cheek.

Taking a deep breath, Gillian turned back to Cal because ignoring him would only prove that something was wrong between them, and he had become increasingly forward in his dealings with her as of late. He had always played the part of the concerned friend, but she could usually get him to back off when she felt threatened. She had yet to determine if his relentless needling was a result of her growing fatigue with maintaining her distance, or if his tenacious persistance was due to him sensing her weariness, this chink in her armor.

"How's your head?" she asked quietly.

"S'fine," he responded off-handedly, clearly not wanting to discuss it.

Sensing his reluctance but curious, she queried, "How did you get such a bad gash?" She joked, "The EMT's not going to tell me you have a bullet somewhere in that thick skull, is he?" Gillian had tried for humor, but it felt flat even as she spoke the words because it came from a true place. How close _had_ that stray bullet come from ending his life?

Cal scoffed, "The bullet went wide. Didn't even come near me." He waved an arm, gesturing towards the far wall, and then he brought his hand back to his forehead. "This? This is barely a scratch. Head wounds just tend to bleed a lot, and all."

"Speaking from experience?" she spoke wryly, regretting the words when they once again hit too close to home. She wondered if Cal noticed her unease. Knowing him, he was well aware of her thoughts and was choosing to ignore them, for the time being.

They fell silent for a moment, and she was so preoccupied with her own thoughts and actions, she was surprised to learn she had almost missed Cal's deflection.

"You avoided the question," she accused lightly. This was _normal_. This was how they should be talking. "How did you hurt your head?"

Through their arguments, their stilted words, through the goddamn _tension _that had pervaded their relationship over the past few weeks, Cal's face relaxed for a moment.

"I guess, maybe-you know, as I was trying to diffuse the situation, as it were-I may have fallen on the gun," he gave her a small smile, eyes bright with chagrin. "With my head."

The lines around Gillian's mouth and the crease between her eyebrows smoothed away for a moment. She put a hand to her mouth to cover the small twitch of her lips at his misfortune.

"Oh, Cal," she lamented sympathetically.

**A/N**: Any thoughts? Do I hear crickets chirping?


	9. Chapter 9

Title: So Cold (Chapter 9/?)  
Author: Kat  
Rating: T (PG-13)  
Genre: Angst/Mystery  
Spoilers: Up to and including Secret Santa  
Summary: Lightman and Foster take on a high-profile case as Foster struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan.

**A/N**: Hi all! How about that finale, eh? I hope this new chapter doesn't get lost in the slew of finale post-eps!

_This chapter is dedicated to #ltmteamawesome. I miss flailing with you lovely ladies. Hopefully real life calms down sometime in the near future, and I have time for Twitter!_

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any part of Lie to Me. The song So Cold is by Breaking Benjamin, and I own no part of that, either.

_Show me how it ends, it's alright  
Show me how defenseless you really are  
Satisfied and empty inside  
Well that's alright  
Let's give this another try_

**Chapter 9**

Torres sat in a straight-backed chair, posture relaxed and calm. She had her arms resting against the table, and she was studying the facial expressions of Nicole Jones, who sat across from her. The lights in the Cube were bright white lights, designed to limit the possibility of shadows being thrown and distorting faces. The pale blonde woman looked abnormally pasty, skin sallow and stretched thin over her prominent cheekbones, and Torres wondered vaguely if that had more to do with the near-tragic occurrence that had happened in her town house earlier that day, or an effect of the stark lighting.

Following her initial pleas and explanations to Foster and Lightman earlier, Nicole had clammed up rather tightly. She was hunched over in her chair as though trying to occupy as small a space as possible; it was like she was trying to disappear by falling in on herself.

For reasons unknown to her, Lightman had handed over the interview to Torres, who was having trouble eliciting any verbal responses from the woman. Foster should have been the one doing the interview, but Lightman had sent her away to hash things out with the local police. Something was wrong with this picture, but Torres had yet to question her mentor, and the dangerous set of his shoulders and tense, angry pull of his eyebrows had her debating with herself on whether it was even worth broaching the subject. Torres cast a wary glance to the wall of the Cube, but it was blanked out, a ploy to try to make Nicole feel more secure. She knew Lightman was watching the interview-watching her strike out.

Abruptly, Nicole broke the silence.

"I would like to go home now," she spoke, meek voice made even quieter since she was looking down at her lap.

Perplexed, Torres simply blinked at the other woman, lips parted slightly in surprise. She responded, "You do realize that you can't go home, Ms. Jones? That you are being charged with a very serious crime and will be escorted from this office by the police?"

Nicole didn't deign to answer, and instead began idly picking at the sleeves of her sweater, quiet once more. Stifling a sigh, Torres pursed her lips together and, hands against the table, stood and retreated from the clinical, voyeuristic interview room. She found Lightman slouching in a wheeled computer chair where he had been observing the questioning. He looked weary, and her eyes were inexorably drawn to the butterfly stitches accented his latest violent mishap. He gave her an expectant look.

"I think I've gotten all I can out of her," Torres explained. "She seems really out of it."

"You think you have enough, do you?" Lightman questioned, almost rhetorically. He sat up in his seat. "If she doesn't plead out, ya know, and this goes to court, are you _absolutely _confident in what you've accomplished here?" He gestured with his hands as he spoke-wide, sweeping motions that were so characteristic of him.

Torres had learned not to visibly waver under such scrutiny, so she injected as much confidence in her voice as she could muster, squared her shoulders, avoided swallowing (it was a tell) and asserted, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Alright," he said and after a brief pause, "Well, run along, then. Go fetch the police."

But Torres hesitated. She thought about how Foster should have been conducting the interview; she thought about the look in the older woman's eye when she had confronted Lightman in the lab earlier that day, and Torres found herself physically biting her lower lip, wanting to confront her boss about these strange behaviors, but wary of his strict rule against discussing Foster.

It had irked her when she had first started working at the Lightman Group, but her ire had been more a result of her own arrogance. She saw Alec Foster boldly lying to his wife and, somehow more reprehensible than that, saw Lightman choosing to ignore it. Deception experts who blatantly lied to one another? The hypocrisy drove her insane. She felt she had the moral high ground, and her self-righteousness was met with terse, angry snaps from her boss.

She was a bit smarter now, she liked to think, and it wasn't (just) naive audacity that had her waffling with the idea of confronting Lightman. While she wouldn't exactly call Foster a friend, she had grown to care about the older woman, not to mention the great deal of respect Torres had for her. Though Lightman was the well-known expert and founded the science, Foster was integral in keeping the company up and running, and Foster's odd behavior over the past few weeks had affected the atmosphere of the entire office. Torres definitely preferred Foster's sunnier, warmer demeanor to this restricted, dimmer version.

Lightman stood, walking into her personal space, shoulders hunched and head tilted. She fought not to step back.

"Got something to say, Torres?" It wasn't a question so much as a dare, as though he could read her damn mind.

Swallowing, defeated, she shook her head and lost her nerve. "No."

"Good," he said sharply, spinning on his heel and stalking out of the room.

* * *

Gillian made her way across the sidewalk gingerly, avoiding the slick patches of ice barely visible from the glow of the streetlights. She loved most things about winter: snow, hot chocolate, scarves. But she disliked how short each day was, throwing the city into darkness at six every night. With the sun (however dim) gone completely, the already bitter cold gripped with an even sharper bite. She crossed her arms, huddling in on herself, wishing her pea coat had several more layers.

Discussing the details of what had transpired in Nicole Jones' townhouse with the police had taken a great deal longer than she would have liked. But tedious, mind-numbingly dull duties were a step up from having no reprieve at all from her thoughts. She had allowed Cal to dictate where she would go, not having the strength to argue and secretly relieved to be spending some time away from him. It was exhausting maintaining her blank facade around him, to the point that she hardly knew what was real or projected emotions and expressions within herself.

The police work had allowed her to breathe deeply and _relax_, if only for a short while.

She arrived at her front porch safely enough, but halted there. With the chaos that had descended upon their case, her promise of dinner with Cal had completely slipped from her mind. She recalled his penetrating eyes, the insistence in his voice, the ferocity with which he had slammed his car door. There was no way Cal had forgotten their plans. Quickly, she unlocked the door and entered, nervously wondering if she had been hesitating to draw out the sting of the cold, a distraction. She shook away the idea.

She tossed her coat on the back of a chair, plopping onto her couch. She leaned forward, unzipping her boots. She had overcompensated for her unhappiness by dressing up and was eager to take off her shoes. They were uncomfortable on the best of days, but with her busted knee they had become agonizing as the day went on. She wiggled her toes against the carpet and smiled for what felt like the first time in ages.

A rapid series of knocks at her door caused the smile to fall away.

_'That was fast,' _she thought, licking her lips and inhaling a steady breath.

Gillian opened the door with a small smile, shocked when Cal brushed right by her, bringing in a rush of cool air.

"Alright, Foster?" he greeted, reclining on her sofa and gazing up at her almost expectantly.

"Hey. Make yourself at home," she spoke wryly, but there was a sharper edge to the joke, one that would normally have been absent. She went to shut the door, anger softening when she noticed a small pile of snow on her porch where he had stomped his feet before rushing inside. She turned and noticed he had not removed his jacket, slightly hopeful that this meant he would not be staying long. She debated putting away her shoes or coat, but decided she didn't care enough to at the moment.

Gillian took great consideration in where she sat. Her coat was on the chair, so that was no good-too close on the sofa and she would be within easy range of his touch, but too far away and he would know definitively that something was wrong. She opted to sit towards the opposite edge of the sofa from Cal: not against the armrest, but with some distance between them.

"How's your head?" she gently asked, eyeing the butterfly stitches on the side of his forehead. The cut appeared to be shallow though recalling the blood at the scene caused a tightness in her chest.

That must have been the right thing to say. Some of the tension in the room dissipated when Cal quirked his lips and quipped, "We make quite the pair."

"Yeah. We do," Gillian looked down at her lap, smiling.

He stared at her for a moment, pensive. When he realized what he was doing, he began shedding his coat as a distraction. He gave her a crooked smile when he was done, leaning forward.

"So?" Cal prompted, and then stopped. He seemed to be reaching for words. "You've been a bit... you know?"

"Been a bit what, Cal?" she wondered, annoyed not only at his prodding, but at the awkward, fumbling way which he was going about it.

"Well," he waved his hands.

"I've been distracted lately. Is that it?" she asked.

"Well, yes," he admitted. "And you tried to explain it to me the other night, I know. But the thing is, I don't think I was really listening."

She must have looked puzzled at this because he continued, "I mean, I was listening, of course. I always listen when you speak," he added cheekily. "But I was trying to figure out all this-the inner workings of Foster-with my head and my science, and I think I missed something rather important, didn't I?"

Gillian twisted her fingers in her lap, explaining, "That's a product of our expertise, I suppose: missing the forest for the trees." Cal scooted closer on the couch, touching her elbow lightly, stilling her fingers.

"You know I always have trouble reading you," he said quietly.

"You don't need to know everything all the time, Cal," she snapped more than she had intended. She softened her voice. "You know, you can be supportive without being invasive."

"Of course. And I've done that before with you. I have," he tilted his head to capture her gaze. His stare was unwavering, and she hated the nervous flutter in her stomach. "But this feels different, and I can't let it go, you know that...because this is about more than just you. So explain it to me. Tell me what I wasn't quite getting the other night, about Afghanistan." He was stuttering and stumbling over his words, so unused to having serious conversations like this.

"What do you want me to say? That I can't stand to see you in danger? That my heart breaks a little more each time?" Gillian stood up, needing the distance. She felt like she was falling apart, fraying at the edges. And while the fear of losing him was real and large, she had to hold back to preserve herself.

"You act like this is the first time," he pointed out. His eyebrows were drawn together like he was studying her.

She began pacing, frustrated that she couldn't explain herself more adequately. How could she tell him she was afraid of losing herself? She had lost her chance at motherhood, lost her marriage. She had placed all her eggs in one basket, building her life around the company, their partnership. How could she gamble away all that they had gained?

Gillian tried to portray that, "This company, our work, is everything to me."

"Oh, come off it," Cal said harshly, standing and moving obnoxiously close to her, and she was struck by their height difference and wished she had not removed her shoes. "Why don't you say what you really mean? I can see it lurking: the fear in your eyes. What are you so afraid of?"

Distantly, she was aware that something was not quite right with his interrogation. He was a little too close, hitting things on the mark, staring as though he knew the answers before he voiced the questions. But Gillian was exhausted, and she did not dwell on the small anomalies.

"When you're in danger, I'm scared," she admitted, refusing to back up from his petty intimidation technique of invading her personal space. "I can't imagine living without you." Her eyes darted to the side as she considered her next words. "I can't imagine never knowing..." she trailed off.

"Knowing what?" He spoke delicately.

Something seemed off with his expression. Gillian pursed her lips, scanning over his features before realizing what was wrong: he knew exactly what she had been about to say.

"You know." She was resigned, finally allowing herself to take a step backwards, trying to distance herself physically and emotionally.

"Tell me," he urged. She thought she saw a flash of fear flicker across his face. But what was he afraid of: that she would voice her thoughts, or that she wouldn't?

"Cal-"

"I want you to say it," he pressed, moving to step forward but pausing after seeing Gillian cross her arms, defensive.

The power struggle between them was draining her, sapping all her energy until she felt as though she were wilting. It was a game, always a game with Cal. She was so tired of playing and knew he could read the resignation on her face. A tightness was growing in her chest, constricting harder with each breath. She was expecting him to back off; he always backed off eventually, but looking at his face, she saw he was just as lost, as desperate as she was. She wasn't the only one who had reached the breaking point.

And Gillian tried to sort it all out in her mind-place all the pieces together into a neat, clean picture. Cal needed her to voice her thoughts because he refused to trust himself to read her.

She broke. "I care for you. It is such an active, persistent _strain_ trying to keep our personal and professional lives separate." She stared at a point on the far wall, unable to look at him as she continued. "We're losing our-our symbiosis, Cal, and I...I think it's because we're fighting this so hard. I want to share everything with you...because you _know _me. You know me, and you still care."

Gillian was suddenly blinking back tears. Her voice was a near whisper. "With you I feel intelligent and-and needed, and I just...I want that feeling always." Her voice, after wavering dangerously throughout her speech, finally broke. She looked up, feeling defeated. He always had to win. "Is that what you wanted to hear? How was that, Cal?"

"Brilliant," he murmured with a dark gaze, and then he was across the room, his lips crashing down on hers.

She couldn't even think to protest. His lips were sliding against her own, and his arms were so tight around her, reaching as though he couldn't get enough of her in his arms. Being pressed against him, feeling his hands clutch at her back, was completely staggering. Her face felt hot as she kissed back fervently, sighing against him when his tongue traced the sensitive flesh on the roof of her mouth. Though it should have been impossible, Cal pulled them closer together, sliding a hand up her spine and into her hair. She felt a shudder follow his touch.

Vaguely, she realized she should stop them, but when he used his grip on her hair to tilt her head backwards and press hard kisses against her neck, his name left her lips in breathy encouragement. He hummed low in his throat in response, and Gillian could feel the vibration in his chest, swore she could feel every bit of him to her very core, and she was overwhelmed. She felt consumed by him. Reaching the juncture of her neck and shoulder, he bit down lightly, following the line of her collar bone with his teeth. She gripped at his back, locking in with her fingernails when the sensations became too much to bear.

He was intense and impassioned, but his movements were so precise that she had to wonder how often he had thought about this moment, touching her like this. It was this observation that grounded her, and it took every ounce of willpower she had to press her hands to his chest and push.

"Gillian?" Cal's voice was gravelly.

"We...we've had a hard day. It's been a rough case. I think," she didn't mean to sound so breathless but looking into his face, desire etched into every line, she found it difficult to breathe.

"You're trying to rationalize-" He stepped towards her.

"I'm trying to save us," Gillian interjected, placing a hand on his chest to halt his movement. He felt so warm, and she swore she could feel his heart beating fast, thumping against her palm. "I'm trying to keep us sane." He had to understand. She just wanted her best friend back.

"You think this rough couple of weeks you've been having is clouding your judgment," Cal's voice was quiet, but rough. She didn't like where he was headed, and nervous, she tried to stop him. "No. No, you had your say, and I get mine. Your judgment is clouded, but not like you think. You're wrong about us, Foster. I've tried to prove it to you-I have. You think this," he gestured between them, "is a product of a few bad weeks, a few dangerous cases."

Cal pushed aside the hand holding him at bay, stepping so close that she could feel his breath whisper across her face.

He continued softly, tone harsh, "You are so far off the mark. We have been an inevitability for a long time, Gill. And you...if you can't even admit that to yourself? Well, you're not the woman I thought you were, then."

Tears prickled the back of her eyes, and Gillian hated that his words could affect her with such force. A myriad of thoughts tumbled through her mind, responses to his caustic remarks: angry rebukes, devastated cries, heartfelt confessions.

She settled on a question, "What kind of woman did you think I was?"

Cal's eyes were hooded, irises bright in the yellow lamplight. He scanned her stricken countenance, and his eyes fell to the floor for a split-second from what he observed in her, and she recognized the gesture; he was allowing her to view his shame. He lifted a hand, lightly brushing against her cheek for a brief moment.

"Brave, darling," he answered.

**A/N: **So, I had the first half of this chapter finished a week ago, and I hemmed and hawed over the ending for an entire week. I'd love to know what you think. :o)


	10. Chapter 10

**Title**: So Cold (Chapter 10/10)  
**Author**: Kat  
**Rating**: T (PG-13)  
**Genre**: Angst/Mystery  
**Spoilers**: Up to and including Secret Santa

**Summary**: Lightman and Foster take on a high-profile case as Foster struggles to deal with her feelings following Afghanistan.

**A/N:** Final chapter! Enjoy!

**Chapter 10**

This was not at all the response Gillian was expecting. She pushed away the hand he had used to caress her cheek.

"What do you mean?" she prompted.

Cal shifted away from her, frowning and slightly disconcerted that she did not immediately understand. That was one of the joys of their relationship: their deep, tacit understanding of one another. But this was new territory for them, sharing innermost thoughts and feelings.

"I just always thought of you as the brave one, ya know?" he attempted to refine his argument. His head was angled, and his eyes were unfocused as he thought. "You were never afraid of...well, people, I guess. You jump head-first into relationships, don't you? Wear your heart on your sleeve. You empathize with absolutely _everyone_." Here, his eyes shifted back to her face, and he caught her gaze, his lips tilted up into a small smile. She didn't have the heart or energy to return his mirth.

Cal seemed to have located the thread of conversation he had been lacking and consolidated his random observations, "I suppose the point I'm trying to make is: with how brave a person I know you are...why the fear when it comes to me?" The _'to us'_ was unspoken, but it hung in the air, tangible.

"It's not about fear," she spoke quickly, refusing to allow him to overwhelm her. At his pointed look, she amended, "Well, it's not completely about fear."

"What else, then?"

Gillian paused. The way in which Cal had spoken was rushed, like he was trying to keep her on her toes. Something was strange about their conversation, and it stirred up a quiet unease in the back of her mind. But it was hard to concentrate with him studying her so closely. She could still feel the pressure of his lips against hers. Her entire body was flushed, and she felt strangely disconnected from it, as though it belonged to someone else. She needed to try to stay focus, remain grounded. But her body and her mind were completely exhausted from the trying events of the day-the past couple weeks, even. Her thoughts were foggy.

"It's being smart," she finally answered. "It's not ruining something great for something..." she struggled to find the correct word. "...something..."

"Wonderful?" Cal jumped in, caustic.

"Ephemeral," Gillian countered.

Cal scoffed, turning his back on her. He paced the room in large, angry strides while she watched with silent apprehension. He reminded her of high school physics class when he was like this: the proverbial coiled spring, full of potential energy and ready to spring into action at any moment. Eventually, he turned to face her.

"Fine. You wanna be a coward, then? I'm not gonna bully you into changing your mind." His voice was biting, almost petulant, even.

His words, his attitude, caused something within her to snap. The gloomy cloud that had been hovering over her head the past few weeks came crashing down around her, but rather than unleashing a torrent of bottled-up depression and anxiety, the snap just made Gillian angry. He was being childish, and she refused to placate him.

"You're 'not going to bully me'?" She was incredulous. "Really, Cal? That's all you've done this past week! It's all you've ever done!" Gillian stepped into Cal's personal space, like he had done to her countless times. He stepped back from her show of aggression, but she simply followed him, refusing to back down. Her vision was compromised by her rage, and she could hardly keep track of the emotions rapidly flitting across his face.

"You can't even say what you really want from me, from us," she baited him. "You just poke," She poked his chest for emphasis. "You poke and prod and get _me _to break."

"Hey, now," he seemed to stretch, and she was reminded again that being barefoot made him inexplicably taller than her. "You act like I'm torturing you for personal enjoyment or something. You know why I pushed you. I can never tell what you're thinking. I just can't read you."

"This isn't about reading each other! It never was," she waved her hands in front of her. "Do you think I admitted..." she swallowed back the heavy emotion, still hesitant and unable to say the words aloud, "Do you think I said those things because I knew how you'd react? Because I could read you? I certainly wasn't expecting you to kiss me."

At her mention of the kiss, Cal shifted on his feet and clenched his hands as though to resist touching her. Gillian sensed his shift in mood and unconsciously spoke quieter, "Sometimes you just need to take a leap of faith, or you'll push people away permanently." At her soft voice, he caved into his desire for contact; his arms reached out and wrapped her in an embrace. This hug was different from their fevered kissing: it was gentler, comforting like the countless hugs they'd shared in their seven years of friendship, and she sighed as he held her close. She felt her tenseness and fatigue melt away. He was so warm and safe. Her uneasiness around him and their constant bickering had her forgetting what it was like to be friends with Cal. It was like coming home.

With a hand on the back of her head, he tucked her between his neck and shoulder and turned so his nose was pressed into her hair. He spoke in a hushed voice, "We talking about me or you now, love? Does that 'leap of faith' bollocks count for you, too?" She tensed at his words, but he continued regardless, his breath stirring her hair and causing wisps of it to tickle the back of her neck, sending shivers through her limbs. "But you're right. I'm a bloody coward. I was selfish and scared...scared that I would see pity on your face if I admitted to loving you. And it would've killed me, seeing that."

"Cal..." she murmured and tried to back away, to catch his eyes, but he held her tighter, so she couldn't see his face. Initially, she had assumed he hadn't wanted her reading his expressions: now she realized he didn't want to see hers, still dreading to see the rejection in her eyes.

"But I wasn't _just_ being a-a scared wanker, you know," he continued, speaking more fervently. "After Matheson, Afghanistan, even today...each near-miss reminds me of regrets, of what I'd be leaving behind. And you would never know how I feel about you, and you deserve to...to know." She pressed closer against his neck until she could feel his pulse against her nose and the rumble of his voice as he spoke. "But then I'd get to thinking that I didn't know you as well as I should...I had no idea...if you'd even want to know how I feel. And telling you just to unburden myself? I couldn't do that, not to you."

Gillian took a deep, shuddering breath, taking a brief moment to enjoy being held before pushing against Cal's chest. He allowed her to go this time and dropped his arms to his sides. She chewed on her lip as she studied his face, and he gazed back calmly, almost serene after his weighty confession. That was something she had always appreciated about their relationship: the eye contact. She could see in his steady gaze that no matter what her decision, she would still have her best friend. The thought made her smile slightly and her eyes open wider, pleased and surprised.

She thought about the direction her life had taken, and how it had changed her. There was a time when, idealistic and naive, she would have jumped at the chance for such a whirlwind romance. Hell...heedless, reckless Cal had convinced her to depart from a safe, cushy job at the Pentagon to start their own company. But the years hadn't necessarily been easy on her. The loss of her child, the dissolution of both Cal's and her marriages, the company finances falling into the red time and time again-it all chipped away at her weary soul. How could she continue to take leaps of faith when life did nothing but trample over her?

As she looked into the face of her friend and partner, she was reminded that he was waiting for some sort of cue from her, and another idea began to sprout. Gillian was often selfless and giving to the point of fault, both in her professional and personal matters. Wasn't it time she did something selfish? Something _she_ wanted? She scanned Cal's face briefly, taking in his messy, floppy hair, his scruffy chin and cheeks, and his crooked smirk. While she studied him, the smirk stretched into a full grin, and the sight of Cal grinning was so rare and unexpected that she laughed out loud.

"You're gonna say yes," he told her, happy and cheeky.

She tried to look affronted, "No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you are. Of course you are. I can see it all over your face, love," he rocked back on his heels, still smirking.

Gillian placed her hands against his chest lightly before turning them and gripping the lapels of his blazer. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"I was thinking," she began, jocular attitude subdued. She was staring at her hands, clutching his clothing, and forced her eyes to meet his. "I was thinking that I'd like to be brave now."

Cal gazed at her in quiet awe for a moment. He leaned forward as if to kiss her, but ducked his head at the last second and pressed his lips to her ear.

"I knew you'd say yes," he whispered against the sensitive skin.

Gillian giggled, more from the shivers down her spine than his stunt, and pushed against his chest. More than anything, she felt relieved. Whatever happened, however she and Cal ended up years from now, she knew that she had made the right decision for this moment. And that's really all she could ever hope to do.

**A/N:** The End! I may tag an epilogue on later, if inspiration strikes. But otherwise, this story is complete! It was my first real attempt at something of its kind. I would love to know what you think.

**Thanks so much for bearing with me on this ride. Everyone who has reviewed has been absolutely wonderful. You're all lovely people! :o)**


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